


Into The Black

by RedPen (GardenVatiety)



Series: Of Salt and Steel [2]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Angst, Bar Room Brawl, Bigotry & Prejudice, F/M, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Intrigue, Original Character(s), Relationship(s), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 00:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GardenVatiety/pseuds/RedPen
Summary: Having returned to Zooport a hero, Judith is faced with the most menacing challenge of her life; to seek out the Blackwolf, a pirate of bloody infamy, and deliver him to the Royal Court of Law in chains. The task threatens to claim her life, and many besides, so she is lucky to have a cunning, capable entourage to steer her through the coming trials. However, a coldness has settled over Nick and her; the exhaust of their fears and doubts. And now, in her time of greatest need, Nick is nowhere to be found.





	1. The Predator

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here we go...

It was not a pleasant day.

The sky was host to a plague of lead-grey clouds which refused to commit to a deluge, seeming content instead to maintain a steady, inconvenient drizzle. It smothered the whole of Zooport, and probably beyond the horizon, throttling the sun for miles around. Even the most cheerful soul could be reduced to melancholy mumbling by the accursed gloom.

And yet they came. In their hundreds, probably. Mammals of every shape and size and station, come to stare in exultation at the captured _Tribunal_ , moored in Zooport’s harbour.

When the ship had sailed into view from around Flying Cape, it had caused quite a stir amongst the guards on watch. Here was the warship of a pronounced enemy, making way straight for them, obviously with the intention to wreak carnage! Then it had let off flares – fireworks with coloured smoke – indicating its status as an ally. Glances down telescopes identified the Zoohaven flag, a pale with blue stripes on either side, a white one at its centre, flying from its masts, and the gallant Captain Hopps standing at the ship’s bow. The fear became an uproar of excitement, and within minutes word had been sent to the Cambers of the Admiralty of Judith’s return, and town criers were rushing through the streets, calling to all that Bronhelm, the nefarious foe of the Zoohaven and Porcine union, had been crushed.

Since then, a constant herd had made its way to the dock to marvel at the captured ship rocking in the calm bay water, to applaud the indisputable might of the nation.

Two such mammals were making their way back to the Merchant’s Quarter via the city’s raised Esplanade, which commanded an astounding view of the ocean, even on a sunless early-winter day as this one.

“It’s just remarkable,” said the jaguar of the pair. He boasted the trappings of wealth; a silk doublet in deep mauve, and scented fur-oil which gave his coat a delicate sheen. He kept the rain off his finery with a broad, canvas umbrella. “Bronhelm. Bronhelm the Butcher. Put down by the Zoohaven Navy. I’m at a loss for words.”

His partner, a giraffe who, in the manner of the style conscious, wore a tall choker that a smaller mammal could have donned as a cape, snorted. He too carried an umbrella, albeit one with a substantially taller shaft.

“And slain by a rabbit captain, at that,” he replied. “Now, Horace, in all your years, did you ever think you’d hear of something so fantastically absurd?”

“No, I did not,” laughed the jaguar. “I daren’t imagine what a rabbit could do that would spell the end of an enemy like Bronhelm. Perhaps she took a mate there on the deck, and gave birth to a flood of kits that buried the poor sod.” He chuckled at his own jest.

 “Well, I for one am enraptured with this Captain Hopps,” said the giraffe. “And just imagine; if the officers of the lowest species are as capable as she, what of the rest? The Zoohaven Navy must truly be a force to be reckoned with.”

The two noblemammals, engrossed in their conversation, barely noticed the small figure resting by the Esplanade’s wall, wrapped in a sable coat and matching broadbrim hat to keep away the rain. Her long ears were hidden by the clothing, but they twitched under her hat, catching every word.

Judith might, at another time, have revealed herself to the two mammals, and watched them fumble awkwardly for apologies and backpedal their discourtesy. She wasn’t much for that kind of schadenfreude, but where prejudice against her kind was concerned she would have been glad to make the fools trip fearfully over their own wagging tongues. Today, however, she was in no such mood, and she put them out of her mind, gazing back to the anchored _Tribunal_ with a sigh.

She was thinking about Nick.

In the weeks that they had been sailing back to Zooport, he had become something of a recluse. He hadn’t vanished; that was an impossibility on the relatively-cramped confines of a warship. He hadn’t become a mute, either, and spoke easily when she had cause to seek him out. But his acerbic wit was gone, and he made no effort to find and antagonize members of the crew, or herself, which had been his custom before. She hadn’t thought she would come to miss his grating presence, but it had been a noticeable void in her days.

When they had reached port, the whole of Zootopia, it seemed, had stampeded to the dock to wave and cry in jubilation, and to throw handkerchiefs and gloves and other makeshift confetti. As soon as the Admiralty had conducted an inspection, and concluded that the only Porcines aboard were prisoners, the crew had made their way down the gangplank, and the cheering crowd had grown ever more ecstatic. Hoofs and paws were extended for vigorous, congratulatory shakes. Ladies draped themselves over the stunned crewmembers, and kissed them as though they were childhood sweethearts. A barrel of wine materialised from nowhere, and full goblets were passed to waiting paws. Within a few hours, the city bells were tolling in celebration, and a holiday was declared for the morrow.

Judith had watched this commotion from the forecastle, but as the last of the sailors disembarked, and the string of Porcine captives were led off to a chorus of boos and insults, she realised there had been no sign of Nick, who usually stood out amidst the uniformed care of his coarser attire. She went below to search for him, and found the ship deserted. He must have slipped ashore at the ship’s stern in order to avoid the assembled crowd.

It had been two weeks since then, and she hadn’t seen him at all. This was cause for concern, for Nick’s pardon was subject to some strict provisions. He was to remain within Zooport’s Government Square, a large, enclosed area that contained Zoohaven’s centres of military administration. He was not to mix with the public in the merchant and residential quarters. He was barred from carrying sword or pistol. Even casting aspersions on the Zoohaven Navy was enough to threaten his protection. And if he was caught in the act of escape, he was to be executed, on the spot, by whomever had the means to carry that justice out.

Judith had paid less attention to Nick leading up to that first sortie, for she was weighed down with the pressure of her newfound command. Now, on their return, his dejection had become obvious, and she grasped that Nick was a caged bird; an animal watching freedom from behind iron bars. He may not be languishing in a cell, but for one who once rode the waves and conquered whatever horizon so chosen on a whim, he was trapped.

Admittedly, Nick’s happiness was not supposed to be Judith’s concern. He had been spared to serve a purpose. Deny it as she might, he was a tool. And if depression or defiance led him to abandon his usefulness to the Zoohaven Navy, his conditional amnesty was so too abandoned. Judith would likely have to carry out the amendment herself; to clap him in irons, or, if he were escaping on foot, and she had the slightest uncertainty if she could catch him, to put a shot in his back. She would do it, without hesitation. Honour demanded as much. The thought left a cold weight in her stomach.

And then there was that other uncomfortable notion; that quickening of her heart when she saw his winsome smile, his clover eyes, or a splash of pearl-white fur escaping from his collar. Or the scars and patches of fur he had surrendered in her service. She held out hope that it was an innocent infatuation that would soon pass by, and cease its gentle torment. There was no time for these distractions.

She had been summoned to attend to the Chambers of the Admiralty at Four Bells, and the afternoon light was beginning to dim. She tipped the collected water off the brim of her hat, and set off towards the city proper.

She followed the Esplanade until she came to Pride Way and continued along it towards the Government Square. The road afforded impressive views of the city, a sea of cream brick and russet rooftiles. The belltower rose high and commanding over the rooftops, marking the epicentre of Zooport. There was no sign of the slums from here; the architects had taken care to ensure that the view from the city’s affluent quarters was unblemished by the struggle and filth of the underclass.

Passing the intersection with Commerce Lane, Judith found herself outside the Church of the Saints. It was a handsome and commanding building, wrought from white marble with tall, black spires atop its towers. There was no service, but gentle lilting music emanated from within, likely the choir at practice. She stopped for a moment to drink in the soprano chorale. It had been many years since she had been part of the Herd, but she recalled this particular hymn; _Praise Be, There Is Glory_ was its name, and it had a haunting yet uplifting character that has stuck with her since her kittenhood.

The Saints had a presence as far as the Burrows, and most of the families there were of the Herd, gathering in homely little churches of wood and woven briar. Of course, the traditional leporine gods, the Seasons, were still worshiped in the open; in the lush copses, and the fertile fields, and as more than an observance of tradition, as well. Tempers could run fierce about neglecting the Builder, whose season was Summer, the Mother of Spring, the Tiller of Autumn and Faster of Winter, lest they usher in a poor harvest or a sickly newborn.

But Judith had never found much solace in the gods. The holy text, the priest’s sermon, the whispered folklore; these rarely offered up the answers she needed. Better results were always forthcoming when one sought out the advice of others, or kept their own counsel.

Something was different today. Something about the sweet melody, that ebbed and swirled like an ocean current. She made as if to enter the church – perhaps to pray, perhaps to see others in their devotions, she wasn’t sure – when she paused, paws atremble.

This wasn’t her. This was some weak facsimile, who wanted succour and cared not how it came. Her mouth drew to a tight line, and she spun on her heel and marched onward to the Square.

 

 

 

 

She made good time, and well before Four Bells she was standing in the courtyard of the Chambers of the Admiralty, a domineering U-shaped goliath with little in the way of style or adornment. It’s single nod to artisanship was the courtyard’s centrepiece statue, a bust of the first Zoohaven admiral, the lion Lord Byron Brightborne, wrought in brass and staring imperiously over a relief of the naval motto. The Brightbornes were a notable pillar in Zoohaven history, and King Lionheart made a persistent clamour about his connection to the venerable house.

She ascended the Chamber’s stairs, past its marble columns, and entered into the foyer. An antelope clerk in a neat buttoned black jacket began to approach, recognising her as she removed her hat and shook the clinging droplets away.

“Captain, Admiral Bogo is expecting you. You will find his office at the far end of the second-floor hall.” The antelope took Hopps’ wet clothes with practiced grace.

“My thanks,” said Judith, making her way to the central stairway and following the uncarpeted hall to a grandly sized, if unremarkably plain, pair of doors. Bogo’s name and rank were inscribed on a plate affixed. As an accommodation to mammals of varied stature, the main door contained a miniature version set in the lower quarter. She knocked first, and heard a gruff voice from the other side.

“Hopps. Come in.”

Even this shrunken entrance for diminutive company demanded Judith stretch on her toes to reach the handle, and she fought to disguise any difficulty as she stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

“Admiral Bogo. Captain Judith Hopps, reporting as requested,” said Judith with a crisp salute.

Describing the admiral was not an easy task. ‘Imposing’ was a start, and yet it somehow lacked completeness. A long climb to a mountain summit was imposing; Bogo was more the equivalent of walking directly up a wall and standing firmly on the ceiling. Hulking and muscular, his officer’s jacket struggled with the task of containing his broad chest and arms. He watched her through adamant eyes that were accustomed to frowning, standing off to the side of a vast mahogany desk. It was large enough for Judith to call accommodation.

“At ease, Hopps,” he said, and Judith dropped her salute, but maintained her wooden posture.

Bogo was still for a moment, and then stepped behind his desk.

“Twenty-five Porcine prisoners of war captured,” he said, rummaging around his drawers. “Sixty-two declared enemies slain, including the traitor Bronhelm, and his guard of honour. All accomplished in a little over four months.” He produced two glasses in one hoof, and a tall, dark bottle in the other. Setting the cups on his desk, he removed the cork from the bottle, permeating the room with the smoky notes of a grandly-aged spirit. “Those are impressive numbers. It would seem the citizenry are not merely mimicking one another when they praise your name in the streets. Scotch?”

“No thank you, sir,” Judith said. “I avoid it when I’m on duty.”

The ghost of a smile wrinkled Bogo’s mouth, and he poured a decent measure for himself, tucking the bottle away when he was done.

“It’s hard not to like that in an officer,” he said. He opened his mouth, and the whiskey vanished in a second. It gave his voice a rough burr when he spoke again. “Discipline.”

Judith was quiet.

“Discipline is what puts us above the common animals, Hopps. It separates marauders from soldiers. It’s what makes great leaders. You have it, in abundance. So, what I need to know now is, how did someone with such stores of discipline manage to lose a rated ship of the navy?”

Judith had become very practiced at hiding her emotions when she needed to. It was a necessary ability when you were an undervalued species, dealing in circles of mammals who wore the prejudice proudly. Her face didn’t alter in the slightest; inside, however, she felt a seed of anger start to bloom.

“Sir, my report concerning the engagement was submitted the day following our return,” she said.

“Mhm. I’m aware of that, Hopps. I’ve read it. You executed some quick thinking, certainly. Accepting, of course, that one of your decisions was responsible for dooming the _Implacable_. More importantly, one cannot help but express concern as to how you arrived at a situation that demanded such quick thinking, given you were better armed and equipped.”

 _Keep yourself in check_ , Judith thought. _Don’t you dare show even a glimpse of anger._

“With all due respect, Sir, Bronhelm was one of Porcinia’s most decorated officers, with a wealth of maritime expertise. He had the superiority in numbers. Only a reckless fool would have engaged him with the expectation of a flawless victory.”

Bogo waved one hoof, and she fell silent.

“I am not talking about a flawless victory, Hopps,” he said. “Your report clearly states that you had suspicions – as well you should have – that Bronhelm had taken on additional crew. You knew a boarding action would be his preference. The Porcine use of launched grapples in not unknown. It is not asking for the miraculous to expect that you could have eluded his clutches. You’re a good sailor, Hopps, and a good sword. Not just for a rabbit - period. But a captain cannot trust anything to luck. Not when their crew’s lives are at stake, or the fitness of their ship, or the repute of their country.”

“Sir, are you ordering that I step down from my command?”

Bogo walked away from his desk, turning to face the impressively-sized window. Even when his back was turned, Judith battled to hide any hint of acrimony.

“I knew it was too early to promote you,” he said. “The captain’s responsibilities are a sacred duty, and a burden too great for most to bear. You will make an exceptional captain, Hopps. But not yet. If the decision was mine to make, you would be transferred back under the command of Lord Pepper, and take the time to mature.”

Bogo turned to face Judith again, silhouetted against the waning sun, and it dawned on her that Bogo was fighting to bottle his own source of anger.

“The decision, however, is not mine, and the Naval Board has already voted to confirm you as fit for service. Evidently, they have heard you name echoing in the streets, and perhaps hope to maintain the public elation by dispatching you a second time. You’ve heard of Silas Rourke, captain of the _Predator,_ I assume. The Blackwolf.”

“I…yes Sir.”

The Blackwolf was a whispered curse in naval circles; an infamous pirate who terrorised mammals from one end of the Latara Ocean to the other. Calling his cruelty and brutality legendary was a disservice to the two words. Reports told of a black ship sailing out of the night, putting the torch to barracks and home, taking gold and slaves and vanishing just as swiftly as it had come, like an underworld spirit, leaving nothing but silence and curling ashes behind. How he had remained uncaptured, or unmurdered, for so long was a mystery; a testament, Judith supposed, to his villain’s cunning and utter uncompromising viciousness.

“You will sail to the location of Silas’ last reported sighting, engage the _Predator_ , and capture him. Alive. He is then to be returned to Zooport without delay to answer for his crimes.”

For the first time, Judith’s mask cracked, and her jaw fell by just a little.

“Yes, Admiral,” she said. “It would be pertinent, of course, to request to know why Zoohaven has the conviction that Silas must now be undone. He has had free reign of the seas for many years.”

“The waves of this new alliance between Porcinia and Zoohaven have been far-reaching and fearsome, Hopps,” Bogo said. “Bronhelm’s spilled blood has sealed us together. And our commitments do not cease there.”

“King Hulfitch has been proving a saviour to the commoners; or, less charitably, he knows he needs placate the restless element amongst his subjects who feel his rule is illegitimate. A reduction in taxes; new public works; a week of festivities. And he is financing this largess by nationalising a suite of Porcinia’s colonial properties, which are owned by the Crown but had been, under Uthber, leased to his political allies abroad for their sole benefit. The Torres Canal; nickel and iron mines in Galmiera. These are profitable entities, and seeing them reclaimed for the benefit of the common hog has raised hackles.”

“The response has been immediate; seven Porcine merchant vessels have been raided and sacked, and their crews either captured or left to float in lifeboats in the Latara. Zoohaven has been pronounced a suitable target as well. It would seem the Blackwolf is amongst the mercenaries who have been hired to exact this retaliation; he has been responsible for the destruction of three Zoohaven vessels alone.”

“And you want the Blackwolf taken alive?” Judith asked.

“The Naval Board is decided, as is the Royal Court of Law. A message must be sent that Zoohaven is beyond reprisal, and that message will be Silas Black’s body hanging from a gibbet at Flying Cape. We also need him alive so the Inquisition may determine his paymasters, and their parent countries be dragged to obedience.”

It was beyond the limits of imagination. The Blackwolf was a spectre; there wasn’t even a guess to be made at where he sailed out off, where he lay anchor. He could be anywhere from the Whitewastes to the sands of Ja’kar. And when she did find him, she stood faced the might of the _Predator_ , a ship more myth than reality, a demi-god.

“And the ship I’m to captain?” she asked. She doubted the _Tribunal_ was a candidate; they had repaired it as best as the situation allowed, but it was far cry from ready to sail against a threat like this.

“You will take the _Invulnerable_ and sail out in nine days time,” said Bogo. “I know it is a smaller vessel than the _Implacable,_ but it is newer, and faster, and more manoeuvrable as well. It will be your best chance at bringing the _Predator_ to heel. And feel free to cease the irritating look of yours, Hopps,” he added, pointing to Judith’s twitching nose. “I know a single ship seems an inadequate armoury to bring to bear on such a task. So, you will also be taking command of the frigates _Wavebreak_ and _Seastorm_. You are to appoint captains to them, and use them as you see fit to achieve your mission.”

“Wait…Sir, are you saying…”

“Yes, Hopps,” said Bogo, with the tired voice of one who felt he was committed to a mistake. “You are, officially, until review pending your completion of the capture of Silas, Commodore Hopps.”

Judith didn’t know what to say. Her heart was beating at a blurred pace. This combination of an unexpected mission and unexpected advancement seemed to have broken her sense of control, and her face dissolved into wide-jawed surprise. She wanted to thank Bogo, but she held her tongue when she saw his strict face staring directly at her, his arms folded behind his back.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Hopps,” he warned. “Remember I told you discipline is your redeeming feature; the feature that will lead you to success, and ensure the lives of your crew are not spent as waste. A disciplined Commodore would, in my estimation, right now be thinking…”

The door to the office swung open, without so much as a knock, and in stepped one of the king’s heralds, a lion dressed in immaculate purple and blue silks. A great yellow feather sprawled from his voluminous beret. 

Judith turned at the noise. Bogo’s eyes nearly left his skull, such was his fury at the interruption.

“Admiral,” said the herald with a low, sweeping bow, “King Lionheart has demanded Commodore Judith Hopps’ presence at once, without delay.”

Bogo’s jaw worked in anger, his brow furrowed so tightly it seemed in danger of breaking his snout. “Commodore Hopps is in the middle of a briefing…”

“At once, without delay,” the lion repeated.

Judith looked at the herald, and then back to Bogo. She despised the politics of her occupation, but they were often inescapable, and there was no question that the king’s orders superseded an admiral’s. She offered Bogo a respectful bow, and made to follow her escort to her next appointment.

“One last thing, Hopps,” Bogo called, and Judith stopped at the door. His heavy breathing gave his voice a threatening timbre.

“This pirate counsel you have taken on board, this Nicholas Wilde. You mention in your report that he was indispensable to the triumph against Bronhelm. Well, I have also read the engagement reports of your First Lieutenant, Felix.”

There was a tense pause. Judith waited for his verdict.

“He, too, arrived at conclusion that this pirate was an asset, albeit he discloses it was the bandit’s initiative to detonate explosive on the _Implacable,_ and therefore condemn it. The Board has, of course, already made its decision concerning the attachment of Wilde to your crew. Very well, I say; Wilde is under your command, and therefore solely your responsibility. And if he should entertain a treasonous thought, or fail in his advisory duty, or be caught attempting to flee, or breaking the terms of his pardon - _if he should put so much as a claw out of line_ \- his protections will be at an end; he will hang, and you will be relegated to scrubbing the galley deck for your poor judgement. Wilde’s crimes are many; the Blackwolf may be a monster, but I won’t accept trading one for the other. You ensure Wilde understands how his conduct now reflects upon you.”

With that, he reproduced the bottle, and poured the same measure as before, and then the same again on top. It disappeared in a single gulp, and his severe gaze never wavered as Judith left the office, closing the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things weren't on hiatus for as long as I thought, then. The majority of this chapter, and the next, and however many the story eventually necessitates writing, are basically finished in my head, so it's full steam ahead whenever I have the spare time to sit and write.
> 
> This work is going to be a lot less action oriented, and focus mostly on character and world building, and setting up the events of the coming chapter. Remember; the slow pace is there so that when the action rams into high gear, you have this quiet, stationary point to contrast it with.
> 
> Also, a fair few movie originals are going to make appearances. Natch. It would hardly be a fan fiction if so little from the inspiring work turned up. I do have a rule; I'm not going to plan to have characters from the movie make appearances. I write a character who has significance to the plot in some way, and if that character happens to share some parallels with, say, Dawn Bellweather, then great, in they go. That helps keep the story fun to write and interesting to read; it's the reason Judith's crew isn't Delgato, Fangmeyer, the usual suspects, etc. Oh, and to return to my point about perpetuating memes from other fan fictions; the most fun I had in this chapter was building up a picture of religion in this fantasy world. The Saints are a sort of blend of Greek Mythology and Catholicism, plus a kind of pagan nature-worship for the rabbits. Inventing fantasy world mythology is like writer's crack; once you start, it's impossible to stop. I really like the mentions to Serendipity, and Japanese mythology through Kitsune, in other works, but I urge you to take a chance on writing something original; it's very enjoyable to do, and I'm hoping it's just as enjoyable to read.
> 
> Once again, thank you for the comments; particularly the critiques, which have definitely led me to be more reflective about how to approach narrative writing in general. Keep it coming guys. Hard punches. I ain't a scared.


	2. Firebomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild CHAPTER 2 appeared. YOU used READ. It's super effective!

By the time the carriage reached Brightborne Castle, the sun was beginning its diurnal fall horizonward, and even with the cloak of rainclouds lying over it, Brightborne was a spellbinding vision.

It had been commissioned and built by Alric Brightborne II, grandfather of the famed first admiral, and as fitted that esteemed family name, the castle was an example of excess. A huge round keep towered at the castle’s centre, flanked by smaller parapets, and all enclosed by white limestone walls that bordered the 13 acres of royal grounds. All over, banners in Zoohaven’s blue, as well as the purple and yellow of the Lionheart house, streamed in the wind. Two flags at the castle’s imposing arched gateway were thirty feet alone, rolling and coiling like the tongues of a mythical leviathan.

It drove Judith to disbelief that royal custom limited the amount of time that kings would actually spend at Brightborne; the majority of their time was split between their seat at the Convention, where members of the peerage proposed and passed laws, and at other royal estates over Zoohaven. That such a grandiose residence, such a vast tract of land, should go unoccupied for any great length of time, certainly seemed a waste.

As the carriage made its approach to the gatehouse, the herald began to speak

“When you are in the company of his Supremacy, there are several customs that absolutely must be observed, lest one cause offence. You must address him as Supremacy. You are expected to wait until your arrival is announced, and then, as a lady, you are expected to courtesy.”

Judith could not imagine a greater embarrassment, and she fought to hide a twinge of revulsion.

“Unless his Supremacy instructs that you may speak freely, you are only to answer his questions; be direct and honest, and be certain to conclude with his title. You must maintain an appropriate posture, for the king abhors slouching. I trust, as an officer of the Royal Navy, you will not find this expectation, nor the others, difficult to manage.”

“Is there anything else required of me?” Judith asked, and the barest hint of sarcasm bared a tooth in her question. But the herald did not respond; evidently, he had finished speaking, and lacked the interest – perhaps even the capacity – for any talk not of an official nature.

Judith forgot her irritating carriage companion, and glanced down at herself. She was not in her white blouse and black cape anymore; her civilian attire was evidently insufficient for a royal engagement. She had been presented instead with a fine black coat and cream breeches, properly fitted and causing no inconvenience to put on – thank the Saints they had not presented her with a dress, or she might just have stormed off.

The carriage drew to a halt at the gate, which Judith could now see in detail. The archway was two beautifully-carved lions snarling, paws capturing a shield bearing the Lionheart crest. One of the Royal Guards emerged, resplendent in a purple doublet and polished breastplate, a ceremonial, yet perfectly sharp, broadsword hanging from his waist. He only had to peer into the carriage, and spot the herald’s imperious stare, and he disappeared just as quickly to raise the sharp-pointed gate. As soon as it cleared the height of the carriage, their mount hefted its weight and drew them into the castle grounds.

 

 

Judith wouldn’t say that she had a high opinion of Lionhearts. As a kit in the Burrows, she had been aware of their monarch, but there was little sense of reverence towards the lions from her family, and Judith had found it hard to understand the loyalty of those who did swear by the ruler’s importance. They said things like, _it is only by the grace of the ruling class that we have this land to farm_ , and Judith had wondered if tipping the crown off the king’s head would cause the ground to crack and dry, or to fragment and float into the void. I had all seemed so silly.

Some additional years of wisdom hadn’t done much to alter her perspective; whatever did change for the better in the world seemed to have little to do with the whims of the royalty, and what charity did emanate from them never seemed to justify what must have been the vast expense demanded by their lavish existence. These were not, of course, opinions that were safe to voice, especially if she entertained a notion of maintaining her current station in the Royal Navy.

Despite her lukewarm disposition, she found herself slightly disappointed when she was told, as the carriage rolled to a halt at the grand entrance, that King Lionheart was at sport on the royal green, and she would not be seeing the interior of the castle. The herald dismounted the carriage, holding the door open for Judith, who bounced down from the significant height with as much grace as was possible; evidently Lionheart had little habit of meeting with animals of a smaller scale. At least the slight drizzle had abated now, and Judith could walk without fear of her clothes’ dye running.

The horse who had drawn the carriage here, also dressed in the colours of his employing house, his hair braided with alternating purple and gold tassels, stood motionless besides the carriage as the herald indicated the pathway leading to the gardens. Still uncertain as to what business she was here for, Judith followed.

They rounded the castle’s eastern wall, and found themselves on a neatly-manicured slope that rolled off into a dense thicket of shady oaks, perhaps a mile away. A crew of gardeners, all sheep, were at work keeping the grass to length, and they took care to keep their eyes averted as Judith and the herald passed by.

A short distance away, the king and his consort were standing near what was, from what Judith could tell, a wooden scaffold.

They did not announce their arrival in any interruptive fashion; the herald cautioned her to silence, and they stood in wait until Lionheart chanced to notice he had fresh company. At the moment, he and a few other Lords in very fine dress, had crossbows to hand, and seemed engaged at the sport of target shooting. When Lionheart did spy them over his shoulder, the herald, with a baritone projection, announced, “Your Supremacy. Commadore Judith Hopps, in humble attendance.”

Lionheart turned to face them fully, and Judith, for the first time, got a close look at the ruler of Zootopia. He was definitely a creature who cared for his appearance; every hair he had was combed straight and scented with fur-oil, and his vast bronze mane, the ends of which has been curled, cascaded down to his chest, framing a broad, predator’s jaw and a striking hazel eyes. He did not, in contrast to his retainers, dress in the colours of his house, wearing instead a deep-rose doublet under a black vest, and matching pantaloons, with dashes of cream and gold in the welter of accompanying ribbons, sashes and jewellery. He waited for Hopps to observe the expected rights.

Judith could not have said if it was her practiced militarism, or a lack of familiarity with the expected feminie gesture, but she flattened her arms by her side and offered a smart, stiff-backed bow.

“Your Supremacy,” she said.

There was some indistinct muttering from Lionheart’s retinue; the herald, by contrast, goggled with disbelief, and moved to intervene, to apologise on her behalf, and probably intending later to reprimand her like a disobedient kit. But Lionheart waved the herald to stop, showing pearly fangs through his grin.

“Unnecessary,” he said, and the herald came to a halt. “Commadore Hopps is a military commander, not a blushing young doe. Henry! Take your shot while I have a look at the rabbit who slew the dreaded Bronhelm.”

Over his shoulder, one of the lords nodded, and sighted down his crossbow at what Judith now realised to be a target range. He was a wolf, who had grown his muzzlefur long, and styled it into elegant curls with beeswax. Not far from him stood a second noble, a lynx, wearing jet black finery tailored so perfectly as to be nearly body-tight. He wore across his chest a sash in red and yellow, adorned with silver rings; the colours of Sansora, another of Zoohaven’s closely-kept allies.

“So,” Lionheart began, “Bronhelm. The Butcher. Done and dealt with. There must be a truly incredible tale that accompanies this feat.”

“Certainly, your Supremacy,” Judith said.

“And these rumours I’ve heard? That you shot him with his own cannon?”

“T’was one of my Lieutenants who dealt the shot, but yes, it is true. Your Supremacy.” Judith was already finding the enforced sycophancy exhausting, but Lionheart seemed to enjoy it.

“That is glorious news to hear!” he exclaimed. “Domingo here”– he gestured to the lynx –“was adamant it would prove to be just a tall sailor’s tale. Hah! Excuse me.”

Behind him, the wolf had shot his quarrel downrange at a target swung from a rope. The bolt was lodged in the white band, a whisker off from the bullseye. Hopps waited patiently as the king took his place at the line. A retainer stepped forward, passing him a loaded crossbow; a gorgeous example of the weapon, made of jet wood with delicate golden filigree along its length. The target, loosed from behind a wooden pavise, swung into view, and Lionheart’s shot struck it dead centre. The small crowd applauded, Judith included, although in the back of her mind she wondered at the use of this skill at governance, or even modern combat.

“A unimprovable shot,” said Henry, passing his own weapon to his attendant. “It would seem I owe the Crown one hundred maura. I’d challenge you further, but the light is starting to fail.”

“Yes, and it would be quite unfair to force you into competition against a lion’s superior night-sight,” boasted Lionheart, to which the wolf nodded demurely. “Lords, I suggest you take refreshment now before tonight’s dinner. I must have words with the Royal Navy’s newest Commodore. Hopps, accompany me for a stroll.”

As the attendant lords bowed and began to make their way towards the castle, their servants gathering up their abandoned playthings, Lionheart nodded to a pathway that followed the castle’s wall through neatly trimmed trees and blooming winter flowers. Judith followed, the herald shadowing a few steps behind.

“Hopps, this battle between you and the renegade Porcine is much in discussion,” Lionheart said, “and I would like to know every detail. It’s said you were very nearly killed in the fray yourself.”

“A glancing shot to the brow, your Supremacy. Nothing more. It can barely be seen.”

“Hah! What courage! You know, I was something of a warrior in my youth, as well,” said Lionheart. “I’m certainly glad that it’s been many years since I heard a shot in anger. But by the Saints, if it were me aboard, shedding rank hog blood with sabre and shot! Tell me more!”

Judith paused; this sort of talk was not her forte, and she found herself falling back on the banter she heard of her crew at mess.

“The favoured tale is that one of the crew fought back three Porcine at once, using his off hand,” Judith ventured.

“Now, this wouldn’t be the brigand Wilde, by any chance?”

“Uh. Yes, your Supremacy.” Of course, a mammal of his station would be aware of Wilde’s appointment to the navy. She chastised herself for her lack of forethought. She hadn’t wanted to speak of Wilde, not with Bogo’s harsh warning still ringing in her ears.

“Well, the honour is all yours,” Lionheart said, running a paw through his curled mane. “To find a use for the common fox? To somehow keep him beyond low traitorousness? You must be a fearsome negotiator.”

Judith felt a flush of black scorn at that, and fought to keep her emotions composed. Saints, she was tired enough of placating for one day! “So I’m told, your Supremacy,” was all she said.

“I must say, Hopps, I find you truly unfathomable. Ask any mammal of learning, from here all the way to the Burrows itself, what the use of a rabbit is. Kind words are unlikely to follow. Labouring. Digging. Multiplying quickly – that one is often suggested as an insult. And yet here you stand, steadily putting down Zoohaven’s foes, rising to challenges that would make the most steadfast sweat coldly. It’s remarkable.”

“Certainly, your Supremacy. I know little about the former leporine engagements; I’m not a farmer, and I have no children.”

“Nor do I; at least, none fit for the throne. They are demanding I take a wife, but first they must to find one who can hold a candle to the finest mistresses in Zoohaven.” He gave her a repulsive wink.

Thankfully, it seemed he was done with her; they had arrived at am arched side entrance to the castle, and a band of retainers was already waiting on the king’s whim. Whether this was planned ahead, or whether these domestics covertly monitored the king’s movements, and rushed to be ready to assist, she could not guess. Neither would have surprised her.

“I’ve heard word that your latest mission is to hunt the Blackwolf, and see that his tyranny is ended,” Lionheart said, as he motioned towards one of his servants who, like a magician, prestidigitated a wide gold goblet and a flagon of fine wine. “I have the utmost trust in you, Hopps, and trust is a commodity in short supply, these days. I am certain that traitors and spies abound in this city; almost certainly it is already known where you go and when you depart. But do not let it wither your spirit. You will triumph at this task, just as you have before. A strong relationship with Porcinia is of the utmost importance at this time; failure really is not an option to you. And when you do return victorious, the reward will be…suitable.”

 Now he paused, and Judith realised their conversation was at an end. She bowed again, and at this he vanished through the gateway, trailing servants like the tail of a comet.

At her back, the lion herald made his presence known again. “You will now follow me to the carriage. And the Crown requires the return of those clothes,” he said.

“I am certain I have faculties enough to navigate this single pathway. And you may collect the clothes from my suite at the Naval Barracks,” Judith returned, and the lion’s face contorted with animosity. Judith did not allow it to bother her; without so much as a gesture of goodbye, she turned on her heel and made her way back to the castle gate.

All the way, she wondered at the sense in having been dragged from the Chambers of Admiralty across town to the castle, and concluded it had been little more than a show of force; a bite to remind the Admiralty who was subservient to who. She allowed herself a scowl of anger; suddenly, the thought of sailing to present arms at the Latara’s most notorious pirate sounded positively delightful, compared to the silky cut and thrust of Zoohaven politics.

The only thing that buoyed her now was Lionheart’s mention of a suitable reward; was this a hint that she might have a place amongst the peerage? Hopps could see diplomatic sense in that; the first rabbit to take a seat at Convention, and a respected rabbit at that, would be a permeant deterrent against disenfranchised mammals ever revolting. It would only happen, of course, if it was felt she was completely controllable. Benign. Simple.

She smirked, thinking about the firebomb they would realise they had lit amongst themselves if she was seated at the Convention, and climbed into the waiting carriage, just as the rain began to fall again.

 

 

The soft, lilting music swept amongst the attendees, who were held in thrall, as if the room were filled with flying pixies and other childish fantasies. It was unmistakably the work of a talented musician, with fanciful melodies and harmonies blending together, some notes played so softly one could not be sure if they had been heard at all.

Weaselton doubted a better violinist had ever plucked the strings, and he smiled as he swallowed deeply from his goblet. She had come from Sansora, a few years ago, sailing across the Latara with nothing but her instrument and a burning desire to play. Weaselton had been lucky to find her; he had assured her of his influence within prominent circles (not a lie), and that he could, given time, secure her a position with the Zoohaven Orchestra, who had turned her down with predictable snobbery over her background.

And when she had accepted, and he had her fragile trust, he had shackled her with an exclusivity contract, by the terms of which it became illegal for her to play at any gathering, and to any audience, he did not give express permission for. A devious bit of manoeuvring, if he did say so himself. He was lucky the _Provisions of Labour Act_ had included sufficiently vague language to allow this draconian manipulation, provided it was against an employee of foreign descent. The Convention had actually met and passed amendments to the act just a month after Weaselton submitted his contract, clarifying protections for all employees in Zoohaven against exclusivity terms.

There had not been, however, sufficient interest in annulling the existing contracts, and so Gazelle was bound to Weaselton until the terms expired. Seven years from now.

Now his parties were the only place, by law, that others could hear her soul-stirring music, which secured him another token of respect and distinction, which was the only coin (very well, gold was also deeply important) that mattered. His guest lists were always deliberately short, as well, and notable figures were often clamouring to be admitted, promising favours in return. They knew the immeasurable value of rubbing shoulders with the right kinds, and at this moment the seventy invitees were spread around the room, wondering at the elaborate spread of delicacies, enjoying hors d'oeuvres and talking: pleasantries, business, schemes.

Weaselton slipped a morsel of grilled fish into his mouth, chewed with relish, and then remarked to his near company, “She’s a treasure to behold, isn’t she?”

William Bellwether looked at him. “Who?”

“The violinist. Gazelle.”

“Oh, certainly,” he muttered without interest. “An angel.”

“It’s not her real name, of course,” Weaselton continued. “She did tell it to me, when we first met; seems I never committed it to memory, and she now refuses to speak to me. But calling her Gazelle has caused me no inconvenience.”

William was silent. He took a sip of wine.

“Are you feeling quite alright, dear William?” Weaselton asked, turning to face him more completely. “You have the look of someone who is ill at the stomach. Are you feeling well? Perhaps something in my spread has disagreed with you.”

“N-no, I…I’m quite fine, thank you,” William rushed. He felt Weaselton’s stare on him, a stare that had never been fooled in its entire life, and continued, “I’m just, I think, _understandably…_ well, the ‘plan’…”

“There is no reason to fret,” Weaselton interrupted. “The ‘plan’ is as it ought to be. Preceding as intended. Hidden, except from those who need know of it.”

“How can you be so sure?” William asked.

Weaselton sighed. “What evidence will you be happy with? All our pieces sit in wait. The Rightful Sons will strike soon, and again when needed. Even if they are found out, they do not know our names, or the slightest detail about us; they only believe we are pro-Uthber zealots, just like them, who want to see their cause a success. Hopps will be dispatched into Blackwolf’s waiting arms. Word reached me from the castle just this afternoon that Hopps met with Lionheart. Not a word of any treachery was breathed; he merely warned her of ‘spies’, and a king who does not expect spies in his court is an utter fool. Is this enough to quiet you?”

“No, it is not,” William hissed, rather louder than he meant. “Hopps is a fine point as to why. Bronhelm was supposed to be her doom, and that was a failure.”

“And now we are seeing to rectifying that failure, are we not?” said Weaselton. He was beginning to tire of his company’s fretfulness, but he had made lying into his profession; he smoothed his features into a smile, and continued, “Hopps still hasn’t a clue that anyone means her harm. She has taken her promotions, and these missions, as a sign of her ability, not that someone desires her erasure.”

“Not desired. Necessary,” said William. “Her presence is a threat to the stability of any long-term power. A Captain who can’t be bought or sold? Whose moral compass unwaveringly points north? She could undo the entirety of it. And if she sues for change? If she rallies the Burrows behind her, and whatever other commoners would flock to that banner? Saints, a nightmare indeed.”

“William,” Weaselton said, and his tone was such that William’s jaw audibly clapped shut. “I have explained to you the reasons you need not fear. Your loose tongue is now putting me at unease, for a loose tongue need only meet an attentive ear, and suddenly a new loose tongue is born. And then another. And another. We cannot afford a single loose tongue anywhere near our venture...”

“I…you’re right, of course,” William stammered. “Obviously, I-I am not myself this evening. As you said. Something in the spread.”

“Try the grilled fish,” said Weaselton, sliding the platter towards him. He smiled as the sheep went slightly green about the face, and turned away coughing.

It had never really changed; even now, far from a time of clubs and claws and alpha males wreaking their domination, predators were still at the apex. They always would be. It was simply the natural order of things.

In a way, he felt sorry for the Bellwethers. Theirs was a prominent house without prominence; centuries old, and for every year it saw pass, it lost another shred of power and respectability. Their incomes now mostly derived from leased farmland and the production of hay, although they had sold off many parcels of land to cover debts in the past. Weaselton guessed William’s desire was to retake the land their house had given up, and once again dominate the pasture from Zooport to distant Furford. And then, of course, to go further - to put his family’s neglected crest back into the history books.

A laudable ambition. Weaselton cared not a speck for it. He had his own designs. The Bellwethers were simply the most convenient tool for seeing them fulfilled.

“Is Lady Bellwether in attendance tonight?” he asked.

“Oh. No. Dawn sends her apologies. Too exhausted for celebrations, I fear.”

“That is a shame. Well, she will need her rest.”

William suddenly threw a glance at Weaselton. “She is not wise to any details of the plan,” he rushed. “Or that there is one, as such. She’s very safe.”

“Dear William, there’s nothing to worry about. I trust you completely.”

Weaselton didn’t trust anyone. Trusting people was a fool’s business. All he trusted was that if he raised a fork, and dropped it, it would clatter to the ground. Every time, without fail.

The immutable laws of the universe. That was where he placed his trust.

Life was a game. The Court was a game. All the mammals in it were just pieces, and if you knew the rules, you could predict every turn, and make them dance just as you wanted.

Weaselton smiled, and flicked his ears as Gazelle started a new tune; a soft, sad melody, aching with silent want.

“I love this tune,” he said, and closed his eyes for the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, fun fact; a 'bellwether' is a leading sheep, the one out the front with a bell at its neck that the others are supposed to follow. Cute.
> 
> Secondly, oh my god, I absolutely adored writing this chapter! Now that we're away from fights at sea and descriptions of colonial-era architecture, and I get to play around with royal customs and banquets and writing intrigue...I'm having a real author-gasm.
> 
> And you have no idea how excited I got when the idea for Gazelle as someone manipulated into a contract waltzed into my head. I was making a cup of tea, or some mundane shit, and threw my hands up, and consequently my tea down, and went, "Oh, snap! Gazelle! Musician! In bondage! What fun!" ...uh, wait. Not...not that kind of bondage. I'm sure someone else is doing that. That's a different story. I'm not writing that.
> 
> Just to keep things straight, too; the themes are a real juggling act now, and the whole 'Judith in government' angle she's got going is just her current goal to improve the lot of disenfranchised mammals in general. She's not like a sleeper agent. She's still 100% a dedicated naval commander; that's just her most likely path to power so she can do further good. It came up at the end of Fox's Guile, but I do feel that particular idea, a fairly recent addition plan-wise, demands some greater attention.


	3. Some Small Measure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapters and posted less frequently is going to be my MO for a while. Thanks for your patience!

The room, despite Judith’s efforts to the contrary, had an air of opulence. She preferred a utilitarian feel when she set about strategy, as it helped her focus, and reminded her that, so often in history, the abandonment of humility was the first step before one’s downfall. Whatever articles of her inherited captain’s quarters that offended her purpose had been removed: ornate bookshelves and map cabinets were traded out for simpler forms; the impressive paw-made wool rugs rolled up and placed in storage; the crystal chandelier exchanged for beeswax tapers. There wasn’t much she could do, however, about the elegant alabaster arches set in the walls, or the intricately mullioned windows.

She had kept the globe, which had pulled double service for a previous officer as a drinks cabinet, for she appreciated the exquisite detail in the rendering of the countries, a collection of semiprecious mineral adrift in a blue-glass sea. And she had kept the table, for it was bolted to the floor.

It was around this perfectly-polished cherry-wood circle that Judith, Felix and a third mammal sat, attending to the final concerns of the voyage they would soon undertake.

“Are we to wait on the fox, then?” asked Felix. “He seems to have a sound head for strategy. Just as well, or there would be little left about him to recommend.”

“Nick needn’t have a paw in all matters,” Judith replied. “And he has no sense for regimented naval preparation. We will do without him.”

There was a truth in that, but her principal reason for his disinvitation was that Nick remained beyond location. Fear for his safety, and her own reputation, had led her to dispatch a hired sleuth, a fox, to investigate his whereabouts, and she was relieved to be told he was still in the city. He was not to be found, however, anywhere within the Government Square, his habit, instead, being to disappear into the trade quarters, and more often than not those of low repute.

“Probably seein’ a vixen somewheres,’ the grey vulpine had remarked, and Judith saw to his payment to be quickly rid of his speculations. It angered her that she had to make Nick’s business her own, for a single slip against his delicate accord with the law threatened a black mark against her name at the very least. There were things infinitely more important concerning her than his base urge to rut with a ghetto doxy. She felt the tempo of her pulse rising, and took a calming breath.

“In that case,” said the third mammal, “if all who matter are accounted for, then I’d very much like to be put at ease over the existence of a plan to catch out this villain, Silus. Myth is he’s slipperier than a fish on a frozen pond.”

He was Captain Beck Harrington, a racoon of slight size but impressive bearing, and Judith happily owed him a greater debt than she thought she could ever repay.

Organising appointments to her frigates had turned out to be a tricky matter. Felix’s selection was without obstacle; he was an accomplished lieutenant, he had passed his appointment exams without incident, and he was already serving under Judith, assuring his fealty. When they left port on the morrow, he would do so at the helm of the _Wavebreak._

He was, however, the only eligible candidate from Judith’s existing crew, none of her other existing officers being within range for promotion, and that left the unlikelihood of finding a captain who condoned sailing under a rabbit’s command.

How a mammal like Beck, who was also technically Judith’s superior, in terms of time logged at sea, could step into such a role was a testament to his strength of character. He admitted individual merit to be the only measure of any worth, and openly scorned the primacy arranged by the naval command for young lords and other ‘spawn of elite society’. He had no reservations about Judith’s ability to command, and to do so well.

He also had a personal reason for taking part in this venture; ten years ago, his wife and eldest child had been killed in a raid by the selfsame pirate they were to pursue.

“A plan, indeed,” said Judith, “for Silas is a shadow. He strikes with immaterial speed. Not one report we have from a ship who has engaged the _Predator_ can provide the slightest hint as to where it appeared from, or might have escaped to. He could be anywhere on the entire east coast of the Latara.”

“Where do we start the search for such a phantasm?” Felix asked.

At that, Judith drew a missive from behind her and unrolled it on the table. “This was submitted to the Navy Logistics Office three days ago. Signed and sealed by me. It details our plans to make sail for the Nostrus Islands, and investigate a possible sighting by gold-traders in the region.”

“The Nostrus Islands? The Gulf of Melior?” Felix asked.

“Yes,” said Judith. “To the south. It’s the most recent intelligence of any worth we possess, and our best chance of finding him. When we set sail tomorrow, though, we shall go north.”

Beck and Felix exchanged glances, ears attentive.

Judith presented a second sheaf of pages, paperwork for the Zooport Docks and Maritime Affairs office, the body that regulated commercial traffic in Zooport’s harbour.

“This is an invoice for mooring fees for three merchant galleys; crew and passenger manifests; statements indicating they are bound for Bersei, bordering the Whitewastes; mention of 4000 muara in gold bullion, and an order of newly-made Gassel muskets, being transported. A statement from the merchant commanding the venture, Antonin Le’court, that 18 culverins should be sufficient to deter the ‘filthy wolf’s claws’. They could not be more enticing targets.”

Beck smiled, his eyes narrowed in their black band. “There’s no such ships, are there?”

“And no captain Le’court. Blackwolf’s directive is to sack Zoohaven and Procine ships. If he is operating with the backing of a foreign government, or elements from within one, then he is more akin to privateer than pirate, and privateers keep a ship’s loot along with whatever bounty their paymasters accord them. A treasure like this? The Blackwolf won’t be able to resist.”

“You’re expecting a spy to pass this information along,” said Beck. “How sure are you said spy will be the Blackwolf’s?”

“Certain. Ghosts are a kitten’s fiction; the Blackwolf’s elusiveness is testament to his capability, not to his incorporeality. His strikes against our commerce have been nearly surgical; it’s impossible he can achieve that without some assistance from some whisperer in our midst. The Blackwolf will get this message. Gentlemammals, if all goes according to the scheme, we’ll enjoy one opportunity where the initiative and surprise is on our side. Once Silas has wind we are on his tail, he might disappear completely. Then we will be striking out blindly, putting ourselves at risk of falling into a trap of his own. Much rests on the outcome of our first encounter. We must strike fast, and fierce, and cripple him so as to take all choice bar a surrender.”

The weight of their endeavour settled in the room like heaped snow. “It will be mid-winter when we reach our destination,” Felix muttered. “Bersei isn’t an arctic icescape like the Whitewastes, but it’ll be damnably cold.”

Beck smiled at him. “You’re not a fan of the chill, Felix?”

“I hate the cold. I hate black-hearted pirates more.”

“The victuals to all three ships are seen to; they’ll be loading as we speak,” said Judith. “I have already requisitioned additional rum rations and warm coats as proof against the weather. I promise; the winter bite will be the least of our concerns.”

“Then with your permission, Commodore, I feel it wise to retire for the night,” said Felix, standing.

“Yes, absolutely,” agreed Judith, and Felix dismissed himself with a salute and left the room. Beck made to follow him out, but stopped at the door.

“Are you also making swift for the land of dreams?” Judith asked.

Beck grinned. “Not for me. Nocturnal, you see. I have letters to write, at any rate. Family and such. I’ll take my sleep aboard the _Seastorm_ , and let the knowledge that we sail to right a grave wrong be my dwale.” He fixed Judith with his amber stare, and said, “Hopps, this is a good plan. And you speak true; Silas isn’t a ghost. He is blood and muscle, and he’ll be sharply reminded of this when the irons are around his wrists.”

“I know this is slightly unbecoming,” Judith said, “but, thank you. Truly. This can’t be an easy assignment for you to weather, I know. But if we must sail to such a task, I could not ask for better company to sail in.”

Suddenly, Judith could see something dark and ugly stir behind those eyes. Something that thirsted.

“I would sail in whatever company I’d need suffer to bring this demon to his end, Hopps,” he said. “With any mammal. Credentials irrelevant. Species unconsidered. I care not of the fox that sails on your crew. I care not that you’re a rabbit. I care not if other officers whisper forever behind my back. The Saints have preserved me all these years for a single purpose. And here I stand, on the precipice, and nothing in the world or hell beyond will hold me back. I will be the agent of divine justice. Here I stand…”

He blinked, as if returning to reality from some hallucination, and he painted on a false smile. “I second Felix’s counsel of a good night’s rest for yourself, though. I will see you at the ships at sunrise, Commodore.” With a salute, he too stepped out.

In the now silent room, Judith stood by the door, and fell into deep thought. She knew the wisest course was to take to her bed, and have the finest night's rest she could expect to receive in a long time. She looked through the doorway to her bedroom, where linen sheets, where soft pillows, beckoned her to come and lay down her troubles.

But she knew sleep would not come. There was too much on her mind, too many tiny splinters that scratched and stung. Her superiors. The tangle of politics. Harrington’s avenging purpose. The hunt for the Blackwolf. The lives of her crew. What awaited if they should be successful. What awaited if they should not.

And there was the itch above all. The ache unending. The wound with no salve.

She couldn't possibly sleep with Nick haunting her dreams. She had to find him. Just to set herself at ease; that she could expect to see him making up the gangplank tomorrow at dawn. She had to.

She slipped out of her officer's uniform and donned her civilian garb, minus the black hat. In simple cotton, she doubted she'd attract anyone's attention; rabbits in Zooport were uncommon, but not so uncommon that she could expect to stand out.

Lacking the shield of naval authority as protection, she also went to her drawers and produced a small flint-lock pistol, it's barrel so short that it barely extended beyond the trigger guard. She slipped it into her boot, took a precautionary step to assure she could walk in comfort, and then departed into the cold Zooport night.

 

 

Her informant had sketched a rough report of Nick's comings and goings. He'd been sleeping in squalid quarters in a downtown tenement, and making forays into the commercial quarters for his necessities: rum, tobacco, simple foodstuffs, more rum. He was in and out of taverns as well, where Judith presumed vixens were more plentiful. She did not have much in the way of specific information; her hired informant had come at a low price, mainly for the lack of agreement between avoiding suspicion and parting with a large sum of coin, and his intelligence had the meandering, half-recalled quality of a conversation with an elderly drunk. Still, she was smart enough to make some guesses about where a fox might be welcome, as many suppliers refused to sell to foxes, so she intended to start with those who did.

The marketplace on Coinpurse Road was a curiosity; a blend of enviable aromas, of ginger and pepper and citrus at the foodstalls, of perfumes and oils, and the ranker notes of discarded waste, faeces and rot, of fish left in the open air for too long. The smells blended and saturated the air, intoxicating one moment, nauseating the next.

There was a striking diversity of species intermingling, bartering over prices in butchered pidgins, trading in an all manner of currencies. Zooport’s upper-class neighbourhoods were somewhat monotypic, sanitised by wealth. One could walk for miles there and see no more than a handful of different mammals. Here was a different story.

She saw many species who were oddities, even by Zoohaven’s relatively accepting standards: meerkats, springboks and ibex in tan and indigo headscarfs, common to the natives of Ja’kar; leopards and buffalo with strange daubs of bright paint on their foreheads and cheekfur; gruff artic wolves, watching all with suspicion; a hugely obese panda in a loose-fitting robe, chanting softly and rolling a beaded necklace through his paws, coins collecting in a ceramic bowl at his feet.

Music, from instruments fluted and stringed, emanating from the various inns and public houses. Raucous drunks hanging on each other’s shoulders, laughing and storytelling in faraway tongues. Sometimes, things said that could not be put right. Blood in the alleyways.

Zooport at night was a living thing, and like all living things it ate and fought and defecated and filthened itself with primitive mammalian carnality.

Judith was sure she could find Nick here.

A good hour’s search, unfortunately, overturned no trace of her fox, and also threw into sharp relief the widespread distrust of vulpines; only two of the hostelries she visited had no signage proclaiming that foxes were unwelcome. In all of them, as well, she had received a fair share of dismissive looks, some bordering on hostile, urging her to turn tail and find a den of her own kind.

She found herself cold and defeated, standing outside the The Fleece and Shears, which announced sternly at its door _No Unmuzzled Predators_ , and then _No Foxes, Muzzled or Otherwise_ beneath that. She wondered what fox kits thought when they read words of that nature. Had a young Nick, once upon a time, ruminated over such pre-emptive rejection? She hated the idea of banditry, but laying blame at the feet of an individual bandit, especially one surrounded by such palpable disparagement, suddenly seemed single-dimensional. Lacking nuance. Damn it. _Wrong._

A haggard voice, rough with age and abuse, startled her out of her thoughts. She turned, and saw an old fox sitting against the building wall, milk-white eyes on her.

“Spare a lionsmile for a vet’ran, gov’ner?”

“Huh? Oh…um.” Judith went into her blouse pocket, mindful of the foolishness of exposing a purse in the night’s suspect company, and found a few spare arga, which she tipped into the fox’s alms bowl. In response, the beggar gave her a deep sniff.

“Rabbit, huh?” he muttered. “Don’t see many rabbits down this way. Don’t see much of anythin’ these days, I s’pose.” He took another long sniff, and his brow creased. “You have the stink o’ the sea about ya, rabbit. You work as a Deck Paw or like?”

“I…my…”

“Navy’s what done it for me,” he growled, yellowed teeth now bared, and Judith took a defensive step away. “Saints damn them. Took me eyes, they did. Fightin’ the bloody Sansorans, wasn’t it? Took me legs, as well. Patched me up, just to throw me into the street. And now they’s fuckin’ friends with the Sansorans! What was it for, ay?” As he raved his blanket fell away, revealing stumps that ended at the knees.

Judith spun to retreat, and ploughed into a leopard coming the other way.

“Saints, watch where you step, young bunny,” the leopard grumbled, as Judith staggered backward. When she looked into his face, however, his eyes grew wide in shcok.

“Ca-captain Hopps?”

It was Harley, recently promoted to Lieutenant, and filling Felix’s position aboard Hopps’ ship while the _Wavebreak_ needed captaining.

“It’s commodore now, Harley,” Judith said, smoothing the front of her blouse.

Harley could not have looked more appalled. “Ah, yes! Yes of course, Commodore Hopps. Of course. Begging your pardon, Commodore, I didn’t see you there. Didn’t…in the dark…”

“There’s nothing to fret over, Harley,” said Judith, in command of her composure once more. “No shame to be found in asking someone clumsy to mind their feet. What are you doing out at this hour? I’d have thought you would be taking rest in preparation for tomorrow.”

“Well…I’ve family in town, and thought I’d bid them farewell a final time. Not…not ‘final’ in that way,” he said, faltering over his words. “Final…once more, before we return. Are you about similar business, Commadore?”

“No,” Judith said. “I’m looking for someone else…”

She cursed herself; what on earth was she explaining her actions to her lieutenant for? She was above interrogation, and yet some sense of guilt, of self-deceit, lurking inside her was making her run her mouth.

“Is…is it Nick?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and Harley, whom it seemed had attained his rank and station in life absent a sense of judgement, continued. “He hasn’t been at his quarters. I meant to seek him out, to congratulate him over the _Tribunal_. Couldn’t find him there. I assumed he just kept to his own business somewhere.”

Judith’s jaw squared. “All our good names are at risk of being sullied by Nick and his scorn for the ruling of the courts. If you do find him, Harley, I expect you will send word to me as soon as possible. I won’t have him apprehended by the city watch and strung up, and us all feel the lick of his lash as well. He ought to face justice in a court of my presiding.”

Now Harley looked deeply uncomfortable, like someone suffering from a stomach ache, or more likely nursing a secret that laps at the brim, wanting to pour out.

“If…if Nick is found…if, Commadore Hopps, I could tell you where he is…what fate exactly would await him?”

Judith watched her Lieutenant. He grew ever more distressed, and his secret seemed in danger of drying up. But he pressed on, determined to speak.

“Nick saved lives aboard the _Tribunal_ that day. Maybe mine. Certainly those of others I care for. He…deserves our respect, doesn’t he? In just some small measure?”

Judith’s features softened. “Nick’s conditions require him to limit his movements to the Government Square, and his failure to keep puts his own safety in jeopardy. If I were to find him tonight, my greatest concern would be his own life, and making sure he doesn’t toss it aside carelessly.”

Harley looked about, and then leaned forward.

“I’ve spotted Nick twice, last evening and tonight, just a few hours past, drinking in a bar in the Sink. Called the Wayward Steps. Some of…some of my relatives live down that way…”

Harley’s shame was understandable; the Sink was one of Zooport’s more noxious slums, a preserve of petty thieves, paupers and those ground under the heel of misfortune. As a gentlemammal officer, coming from fine-enough breeding to enter the Naval Academy without fuss, admitting to having any family who resided in the Sink was a tarnish.

“Are you certain it was Nick?” Judith asked.

“As I am of anything,” he said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Your service is appreciated, and Nick is in fine paws.”

Harley, still wearing the look of someone who wasn’t completely sure if they had done the right thing, said, “Commadore, the Sink is not a safe place. Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you?”

“No, Lieutenant. This ought not concern you. I will take sufficient precaution for my safety.”

There was a lingering silence, while Harley no doubt considered whether he was about to disobey a direct instruction, before he saluted crisply, and vanished into the market commotion, leaving Judith to face the clutches of Zooport’s black, immoral other side alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me a while ago that pirate lingo has been unaccountably absent; no one has said 'Aye' or 'Yar' yet, which makes me sad inside. Although, we've spent most of the time in the company of military sailors, and Nick needs a sharp lexicon to pull off the sardonic wit, so it makes sense. I got a chance to amend that slightly with a beggar character, and it was really fun to write in that style. Even that was substantially toned down. What can be made of this example from the New York Times: "Mind yer fuff, you soger,’ sings out th’ old man...the after guy fittt in one with a cuckhold’s neck around the boom end. Are yer a following of me, ser?" All I can parse is that someone slept with his wife, which probably isn't right. 
> 
> There is also a smattering of challenging reference; a 'dwale' is a sleeping tonic, a 'doxy' is a rogue's girl. I will be using both day-to-day from now on.


	4. The Slums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet. Or...crushingly depressing. Enjoy!

Judy had been sitting front and center of her Mammalities Class at Zooport University – completely attentive, for she knew her continued acceptance there hung by the fragile thread of her performance; she could not feign ostentatious concentration to enflame the professor’s ego, as many students with surer circumstances did – when she had first heard the theory of the Great Food Chain of Being.

"There is a duality in the world," Professor Wolfworth, grey-muzzled and imposing, had said that morning. “Order and Chaos. But know, dear students, that these are not two equal pillars, whose collapse would plunge us into the bleak void of regress. Oh, no, no, tender youth. Did you entertain such a misguided notion?"

At this he singled out a young gazelle a few rows away, who stiffened in panic at the sudden scrutiny. It was not important, evidently, if he had actually given so much as a passing thought to an equality between the two. And, even if he had, coming to fine reasons for such a conclusion, it was forbidden by custom to remark to the contrary. Behaviour that eroded a professor’s prestige was self-destructive.

"Only Order can be considered to have value,” Wolfworth continued, strutting about his dais in an expensive black silk tailed coat, posturing while he pontificated. “Chaos is its antithesis, and it must be defeated and contained in its every guise if society is to thrive. The Great Food Chain of Being is Order itself. Order incarnate. Isn't it obvious, gentle students? The strong do not merely rule over the weak by circumstance. The mighty never serve at the pleasure of the weak. It is a backwards notion, isn't it? It is Chaos.”

His voice began to intensify; he was reaching the climax of his soliloquy. The ostentatious learners leaned forward, eyes aglitter.

“So, it is our constant duty to ensure the preservation of the Chain; to ensure, with constant vigilance, that the strong assume their rightful place, and the weak accept their station, and never resort to blind rebellion; to ensure that the lower species never dare to topple the higher. That way lies ruin."

Judy was sure when Wolfworth enunciated 'lower species', sneering as though the word left an acid bitterness in his mouth, his gaze lingered on her momentarily. She told herself sheit was imagined, and dutifully took down the professor's words as notes in her journal.

Since then, she had given little thought to the theory of the Great Food Chain of Being - for the idea of lesser and higher species. For one, she found that the professor's ideas were a bastardised copy of the early works of the philosopher Elkenstien, whose vision possessed greater nuance and less overt speciesism. Also, it seemed deeply wrong to her, on some level beyond critical assessment, that physical prowess should be sole scale by which a mammal's worth was quantified.

However, as frictional as the idea of classes condemned by the lottery of physical nature seemed to Judith, she doubted she would have much success arguing the counterpoint while standing where she was; the slum district of Zooport. Once one crossed Goodwater Bridge, heading for the east-side of the river Tenebris, creatures liberal and conservative alike pulled their coats close, fingered concealed pistols or daggers, and stared at every passer-by with a watchful eye.

The Zooport slum was a swathe of decrepit land running from the banks of the Tenebris to the eastern wall. Inside this few square miles, a huge destitute population toiled thanklessly in ever-mounting squalor to keep the industries of Zooport fed with raw material. It was the city’s unlanced boil, its ugly shame.

The dilapidation started even before one had crossed Goodwater Bridge; the homeless sought refuge on its walkways, hiding under threadbare blankets, begging to the pedestrians passing over, and all manner of noisome ruffians occupied the bank under the bridge, drinking homebrew spirits from bowls and accosting anyone foolish enough to stray into their territory.

Judith made her way swiftly over the river, thankful that the late hour saw much of the bridge’s population asleep. She did have to shake off one grasping paw that snatched at her foot as she passed. The ferret who owned it groaned at her through an ulcerated mouth.

“Come on, luv,” he wheezed, “ya got spare coin on ya. Ya got spare coin, I can hear it. Whadya need it for?” He did not seem angered when Judith pushed on; the beleaguered souls of the slums were used to rejection.

The area beyond the bridge was no better: row upon row of cheap housing, some of it half-collapsed; huge families crammed into single rooms; food rotting; chamberpots thrown into the street; clumps of excrement, waiting to be stood in; the stink of overpopulation.

It was desperately dark, for the only light fell from entranceways, from fires burning in the street, or from lamps in upper-story windows, whose rays had to penetrate the caked filth and dust.

Judith kept to the centre of the main road, not wishing to tempt danger by passing to close by an alleyway. A small animal like her? Some hood might attempt to grab her, carry her off for ransom or worse. She felt some comfort from the pistol in her boot; less than she would have felt if she had her rapier, for she doubted there was a gutterknife anywhere in Zooport she couldn’t carve from neck to navel. But it would have been an unwelcome encumberment, and an obvious indication she belonged to the military. She couldn't risk drawing that much attention to herself.

At one street corner, she spotted a gang of prostitutes huddled together, as if for protection. They were forlorn lot; fur rough and unkempt, cheap perfume hiding their unwashed filthiness, garments stained. Dark stains. Blood, perhaps.

A crew of pimps were hard at work, talking with prospective clients, bargaining the girl’s flesh while they stood demurely to the side, eyes downcast. She hated how quickly she noted that several of them were foxes.

Strangest of all, parked by this harem of broken animals, was a stagecoach of unassuming adornment, a brawny draft horse standing beside it. The passenger was not in sight – probably he was one of the clients, caped in black, his identity a safe secret. Judith had heard of this; rich mammals descending upon the slums to take advantage of the whores who lived there, for they were cheaply bought, and far more obliging than the girls who worked in Zooport’s upmarket brothels.

As she passed, the door to the carriage opened, and one small girl – a rabbit? No, a dear, stunted and desperately frail – was ushered in roughly by one fox pimp, whose smile was the most nauseating sight in Judith’s recent experience. And the beringed paw the reached out from the darkness inside the carriage, grasping eagerly for its prize? Equally dispiriting. It sent a shudder of disgust up Judith’s spine.

She found herself host to a thought she’d had before, who was not a complete stranger in her head. The thought was this;

_Why do I fight for you, you monsters, you beasts without honour? You nobles and lords, oblivious to what parasites you are. You murderers and degenerates, up to your elbows in innocent blood and stolen wealth. You don’t deserve those standing guard._

She pushed that thought and the pimps and the carriage aside – there was no time for it – and, pulling her cloak a little closer, she hurried on her way.

 

 

Soon she reached the archway at the junction of Crack Lane and Fletcher Street, which marked the outer rim of the Dockside; the Sink, as most mammals referred to it, for it was a cesspool that dragged mammals down. The favoured joke? We call it the Sink, because everyone there is circling the drain.

It occupied the right-hand side of the river mouth, and was the preferred mooring point for incoming traffic that couldn’t afford the expense of Zooport Harbour, or couldn’t afford the attention of the customs officials. The trade-off was the lack of protection; the Sink was notorious for its crime, synonymous with larceny and brawling. This was a place to keep your wits and weapon close and sharp, especially in the night’s inky pall.

There was a problem, though; Judith knew the geography of the slums to some degree, but she was less knowledgeable about the Sink, and uncertain of the exact location of the Wayward Steps Inn. She had heard it was not far from the archway where she stood, but it was not announcing itself from her exact point, and she had no desire to meander in these black alleys hoping to stumble upon it. She cursed her haste in turning down Harley’s offer of escort; at least, she should have had wit enough to get the tavern’s exact address from him. Something about the nature of this excursion was making her simple. Yet, it somehow felt right that she undertook it alone.

“You lost, dearie?” came a voice from behind.

Judith spun at the noise, and saw a slight figure resting against a nearby wall; a bunny – a doe – wearing a crumbling shawl that might have been salmon pink in a distant time, made brown by the taint of years and back-alley foulness. She had streaks of purple eye-shadow applied poorly, and something red daubed about her lips; a whore as well, perhaps?

Judith had no desire to speak with anyone, but she needed information, and a fellow rabbit seemed her safest option. She was conscious of the need to disguise her way of speaking, so she coughed and said, “Ta. I’m looking for the Wayward Steps; reckon I’ve gotten turned around, cos I could’ve sworn it was near here.”

“You’re close, right,” said the doe. “Take this lane ‘ere, and follow it ‘til Browns Road. The one with the burned house at the corner. An’ walk the ‘ole way, too; no shortcuts down Cutneck Alley. For obvious reasons.”

“Bless you,” Judith said, and made to leave, when the doe took a step forward.

“Wait a moment, miss,” she said, and held out her hand. “You got what you need from me. Now we need something from you.”

In the shadow behind her, a pair of ugly yellow irises flashes, and something snarled in warning. It stunk of fox.

Judith held her nerve, and appraised the rabbit while she slowly tucked her paw inside her blouse and produced a fistful of silver; enough to avoid insult, not so much to provoke an outright robbery. She tossed the coins at the doe’s feet, and took a step back to see if she would be needing her pistol sooner than she expected.

But the doe nodded, and said, “You take care with them rough animals at the Steps, dearie,” and then stooped to collect the silver. The menacing eyes behind her faded into the dark, and Judith carried on her way.

In short order, she arrived at the corner the doe had described, with its tenement house that had been reduced by fire to charcoal remains. She saw eyes in the dark - squatters, using it as lodgings despite the clear danger of further collapse. And there, just down the street, was the Wayward Steps Inn.

Even from here the Step’s shortcomings were numerous and apparent: heaped straw and dung on the street in front of it; staggering patrons coming and going, one lying prostrate in the road, possibly dead; a poorly-commanded fiddle doing its best, and failing, to drown out the cacophony of raucous drinkers emanating from inside.

Suddenly, mere yards from her goal, Judith felt a twinge of reappraisal; it did not take a mystic to conclude that this had a very high likelihood of ending poorly.

And what was she trying to achieve? To have words with Nick? To chastise him for his reckless disregard over his pardon conditions, and ensure he remembered the cost if he should be vacant on the morrow? She doubted he would feel any sting in that. To ask him why he seemed in such low spirits, and confirm his loss of freedom – rightfully lost, she knew – as the catalyst? To tell him she feared he would vanish out of her life, and not reappear unless in chains and facing a fantastically expedited execution? How could such mawkish intent have led her to this place? If this was the best rationalization she had, she should turn now and retreat quickly, before calamity struck.

_Winsome smile. Clover eyes. Splash of pearl-white fur._

With a resolute frown, she marched straight up to the entrance of the Steps, straight past the astounded clutch of drunken mammals, and went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 was getting a little too cumbersome, so I cleft it in twain. Hopefully it doesn't feel too much like filler. Don't worry; Nick is going to reappear soon. I'm getting sick of not writing from his perspective.
> 
> I actually had to do a fair bit of research for this one, to try and accurately capture the details of a large town somewhere in the 18th century. And it threw up an interesting complication; a lot of the reek that accompanied life in that time came from activities like leather making, or running abattoirs, or other animal-focused pursuits. None of that would apply in a world where animals aren't tanning hides or butchering each other for meat. I guessed the main offensive odor would come from animal excrement, or possibly scent glands or territorial marking. Just another example of how unexpectedly challenging writing a fan-fiction universe can be if you take it too seriously.


	5. Let Me Be Your Fox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm no going to lie; I got choked up while editing this. Sorry if you were looking for something up-beat.

In the low light of the inn -- there was only a few blackened oil lamps contributing their glow -- in that low, urine-coloured murk, Judith drew a breath.

This was an ugly place.

She stepped through the door, and felt course straw rushes underfoot. It was mouldy with age, and it stank something atrocious, perfumed with fishbones and spilled ale, distinct even over the harsh smell of woodsmoke from the kitchen. There was blood on the floor.

A few of the patrons looked up on her entrance, and began to laugh.

“Look, Resh. Rabbit in ‘ere, at this ‘our. Might be she’s lookin’ to pull the ol’ sword out the scabbard, ha!” said one bedraggled cheetah.

His companion, a wolf with a hideous scar over his check, leaned over to appraise her, and snorted. “I prefer women with meat on them,” he said, and flashed his teeth.

Still confident that her pistol would keep her safe, she ignored the pair, and the other condescending stares and remarks, and circled around towards the bar, keeping her eyes peeled for Nick. The bar seemed to be filled predators, but none of them foxes. She hoped she was not too late.

As she approached the innkeeper, she had to bottle her shock when she noticed that two wolves were coupling under one of the tables, an alpha taking his wench on the foul straw. She could hear their base grunts, saw flashes of pink, and immediately averted her eyes. She guessed she should have expected as much in such an establishment.

With a tidy jump she alighted on one of the bar’s stools, and saw the barkeep, a moose, wiping tankards with a filthy rag. She coughed to get his attention, and the moose turned. He had only one full antler, the other ending in a jagged point, and his fur was matted and wet with grease. He looked strong enough to crack Judith like an egg, if he wanted.

“Your business is your own, girl,” he said, fixing her with a quizzical look down his broad snout, “but I’d recommend a short stay if you’re only here to drink in the atmosphere. The boys are a little bloodthirsty, tonight.”

Judith was in no mood to chat. “Whiskey. Cheap,” she said, and the moose turned to his store of bottles.

“You want the old Nighthowler, then?” he asked.

“No. No, just something plain,” Judith insisted. Nighthowler whiskey wasn’t a drink; it was a powderkeg and a lit fuse. She’d seen mammals just touch the stuff and, in short order, loose their minds entirely.

The moose went for some other brand, tipped a rabbit-appropriate serve into a too-big tankard, and put it on the counter. “Smallest cup we got,” he explained.

Judith dropped a pile of silver next to in, and then said, “I’m here looking for a red fox. He’s been here at least once this night, but he might have left by now. You know where I might find him?”

The moose crossed his arms. “I ain’t no stoolie,” he said, but his expression changed when a gold piece appeared on top of the initial payment. “Alright,” he conceded, sweeping the coins into his hand. “Might be that one, in the corner. Been here most of the night. Hasn’t bought much, though. Typical bloody tight-arsed fox.”

Judith slipped off the stool, leaving her whiskey behind -- she wasn’t really in the mood to drink, either -- and started towards where the moose had pointed, a small table in a slight enclave carved out by the room’s disordered layout. She saw the dark tips of ears, saw a coat peppered with tears. She held her breath, and when she was near the fox’s elbow, she spoke.

“Nick?”

The fox turned at his name. _Clover eyes_. It was Nick alright, and right now those eyes were saucer-wide with surprise.

“Saint’s rotten arse, Hopps! What are you doing here?!” he hissed, nearly falling off his chair, his pipe clattering onto the table, nearly falling into his half-full earthenware mug.

Judith climbed onto the other chair. “That’s a question I should be asking you,” she said.

“This isn’t a safe place, Carrots,” he replied, picking up his pipe and fingering the spilled tobacco back into it. “You’re going to get hurt if you stay.”

“Nick, it’s a winepit full of lowlife drunks,” Judith muttered, “not a naval sortie. You’re insulting me.” She cocked her head at him while he struck a match and lit his pipe. “At any rate, if you’re so worried for me, what in the Afterworld gave you the gall to depart from Government Square? If anyone who knows you well enough spots you, you’re going to get yourself hung and me thrown out of the naval corps!”

Part of her had promised she wasn’t going to be angry with Nick; she knew it would help nothing. But now that she had evidence that he had not vanished like a midnight phantasm, now that he was here in the flesh, she felt an indignant rage at Nick’s impudence begin to swell inside her. What right did he have to put them both at such risk?

If Nick was ashamed by his conduct, it didn’t show. He finished packing his pipe, and struck a match against the rough wood of the table. A moment later, the ember of his pipe sent a curl of blue smoke into the already retched air. He drew deeply, blew the smoke out his nose, and gave Judith a look.

“You took me in as a brigand, Captain,” he said, “and a brigand I am, still. As far as I’m concerned, the rules are just another fence to hurdle. And those deathly-drab quarters in at the Naval barracks are a living death. I’m to stay cooped up in those, like a caged rat? I’d rather be dead proper.”

“You forget yourself, Nick,” Judith said, low and threatening. “You made your choice to thieve and plunder, and the tax ought to be death. That you are still standing and breathing should be a gift to you; your complaining is just a child’s impudence.”

“My choice, aye?” said Nick, eyes narrowed. The worry he had felt for Judith before was gone now, and his tongue, loosened by drink, seemed determined to wag without restraint. “You say when a mammal is presented with a single corridor, it’s his choice where he goes? I say, his only choice is to walk forward, or stand still; to take what is offered, or to lie down and die.”

“I’m not talking of your past, Nick. I’m talking about _now_ , about what matters. You had a choice; to submit your life in payment for your crimes, or to redeem yourself in my service. You took the later, and like it or not, if you can’t appreciate the rules, you relinquish your value…”

“I am not a hammer!” Nick snarled, his paws thumping the tabletop, and the few heads who weren’t already turned in curiosity at what business a rabbit and fox might have together cocked their ears. “I’m not a hammer,” he repeated. “Not a saw. I am not some _tool._ Hear me? Every mammal has needs, and they go beyond the desire to just draw breath one more day…”

Judith drew back in her chair, eyes fixed intently on him as he halted his tirade, turning his gaze aside and drawing on his pipe again.

“What needs, Nick?” she asked softly, but she already thought she knew -- the call of the open ocean, the need to be at the helm of one’s own destiny. Nick said nothing, though; gave no hint towards the real reason, that burst dam, the rising tide he was drowning in. Instead he blew a great grey ring of smoke into the air, watching it spin gently until it dissipated.

“You know what’s important, Captain?” he finally said, his voice sad, detached. “Maps. Maps are what matter.”

Judith had been a lot of things today: angry, dejected, tired, alone. Now confused.

“Maps?” she repeated, eyes asquint. “Nick, how much have you had to drink?”

“Take the _Tribunal_ , for example,” he continued obliviously. “What really turned the tide of that battle? I’ll tell you; knowing the terrain. Knowing the sea. Otherwise, we would have sailed straight to our doom. Turned ourselves into carcasses. Instead, we’re sitting here debating. Knowledge will always trump the sword, Hopps. Everytime. If you are going into the black, where there is no light, you need maps to guide you if you hope to survive. Can never have too many of them.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Nick?" Judith asked. “Speak plainly, please. I’ve no time to unravel any mysteries.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Nick muttered. He took one last heave on his pipe, and topped the spent doddle onto the table. “Telling you how to stay alive. Dispensing wisdom. That’s what I’m for, right? That’s my use to you.”

“I’ve already told you, Nick -- I heard the words come out of my mouth -- you’re not just a tool. Not to me. Yes, I need your knowledge, and your cunning, and I need your sword, and I need you to ply those things in my service. But they are just parts of you, Nick. You’re the one I need. Or do you still doubt what I told you -- that I’m going to the Convention, that I’m going to take power, and there’s a place by my side for you there?”

“Of course I doubt it,” Nick said, and Judith’s heart sank. “What else am I supposed to do with your pipedream, Hopps? Cling to it? It’s smoke; it will disappear through my paws. Sorry, Hopps. You’re a rabbit, I’m a fox, and we’re deluding ourselves to imagine anything is going to change.”

Judith sat still, feeling bleak and desolate. Suddenly, it all seemed hopeless, and she decided it was time to go. She had got what she had come for; well, almost…

“Nick, answer me one question, and then I’ll leave you to your sorrow; when the _Invulnerable_ hauls anchor tomorrow, will you be there? Or will you betray me?”

Nick stiffened at that. “I’ll be there; my sword will be there. My body will.”

Judith nodded. “Do you want me to leave?”

Nick eyed her sadly. _No,_ he wanted to say; wait, no, what he wanted to say, to beg, was, _Judith, cast off this useless weight, this loadstone around your neck, trying to prove to an uncaring world that you matter, because I know that you do for a fact, and all we have to do is shed these heavy responsibilities we’ve been saddled with, and take a ship together, and sail to the beckoning horizon in whatever direction takes your fancy, because out there the judgement of others, that seem like fortress walls here, well they’re nothing but paper out there, we’ll walk right through them, we can be happy, now let me kiss you, you incredible creature, let me be yours._

_Let me be your fox._

“I can’t go with you, Captain. I can’t go any further than a sword in your service. You’re to stop talking about this like it could be real; it’s cruel. For Saints sake, I don’t even know who my father was. I doubt he had lands and wealth and a title -- whatever he did have, he didn’t want to share it with his son, because he abandoned me before I was old enough to remember his face. Left me in the care of a prostitute and part-time wet-nurse, until the coin he forked over ran dry and I was out on the street.”

“I have no land or title either,” said Judith. “I’m still going to go, Nick. You can’t look to the family you didn’t have and justify your life by this alone. Aren’t you stronger than that?”

“Hopps, if tomorrow the Royal Navy decides it doesn’t need you, and tosses you away, where will you go? There’s a home for you, isn’t there? Sure, it’s in the country. Sure, it’s a poor farm. But it’s home. Foxes just don’t have those. Our grandfathers were beggars and criminals, and they raised beggar and criminal sons, so that’s what they left for us, and _damn it all_ , you say it’s my choice to say otherwise, but it sure doesn’t feel like it…

Judith reached over the table and took his paw. _Gods,_ he thought, _not this again. How dare you give me a taste, and then leave me to starve?_

“Nick, I don’t know what to tell you, besides that if you want a home, it’s here. On the ship. It’s where you could belong. With me.”

They were close, now. Drawing closer. Close enough that Judith could see every tiny detail in his emerald irises, the tiny bright flecks, pupils dilating, and suddenly thought that maybe she had it all wrong, and it wasn’t just his freedom that he desired…

A shadow fell over them.

“Is this fox botherin’ you?” someone growled.

Judith and Nick turned; leering over them were two mammals, a wolf and a hyena, dressed in rough coats and patched trousers. The reek of rum was heavy on their breath. Both were staring at Nick with alarming hostility.

“Never met a fox that wasn’t a bother,” snarled the wolf.

“Ain’t that the truth,” slurred the hyena. “So, what, fleabait; you see a defenceless bunny an’ think, ay, here’s someone that won’t puddupa fight? Huh? Didn’t you hear a rabbit just gutted that sack o’ lard, Bronhelm?” The hyena leaned closer, sticking his finger in Nick’s chest. “Trash like you needs to be ‘specially careful at the moment. You’re gonna get the wrong ones riled up, otherwise…”

“Well, if there’s any word I’d be fishing for to describe you two, it’d be wrong,” said Nick. “Wrong ugly-ass mugs stuck on the wrong lard-ass bodies threatening the wrong bloody fox.”

“Ay, you hear this?” said the wolf. “The egg-thief here’s got a mouth on him. Guess ‘is whore mother never taught him how to shut it.”

“Outside, fox,” the hyena said, his fists already bunched. “Someone needs to teach you manners, and a bootheel’s the only way shit like you ever learns…”

Judith was shocked; she stood up to try and intervene, but Nick cut her off.

“Save it, Hopps,” he said with a sigh. “These two made up their minds long ago.”

Before another word was uttered, Nick’s paw shot out, scooped up the clay tankard from his table, and launched it directly into the wolf’s muzzle, smashing it to shards. The wolf reeled backwards, roaring in pain. The hyena took this as his cue to take a swing, but Nick was already off his seat, scampering up onto the table, launching off it and tackling the hyena around the chest. Both mammals went tumbling backward, landing roughly on the straw-covered ground. Nick sat astride the hyena, and immediately started swinging his fists into the drunkard’s face.

The wolf had recovered, wiping the ceramic splinters out of his eyes, and moved in to pull Nick off the hyena. He was suddenly arrested, however, when Judith landed right on the back of his neck, grabbing him tightly by the ears.

“What the…” the wolf growled, and tried to shake her off, but she clung on tightly. It wasn’t until the wolf managed to reach back and grab the scruff of her neck that she let go, and the wolf threw her aside. She landed with a tumble, coming to rest on her back by a long table near to where the fight had started.

Nick saw the unencumbered wolf approaching, and abandoned trying to land further blows on the hyena’s face. He rolled off, coming to his feet with an empty whiskey bottle in hand, snatched up from amidst the filth of the tavern floor. He hurled it through the air, but the wolf ducked under it and it shattered harmlessly against the wall.

Lying on the floor, Judith locked eyes with the barkeep, who was merely watching with a semi-interested smirk -- this sort of bloodlust was likely a daily occurrence here. Directly beside her, however, Judith spied a mammal who very much was interested; a young lion, swaying drunkenly, who was staring at the fight with narrow-eyed menace. He climbed off his seat, and Judith saw a sturdy wooden club, banded with iron rings, slip from his sleeve into his hand.

Judith gasped, and then dived onto her feet, reaching out and grabbing the end of the middle board that made up the long table’s top. She wrenched on it with all her might, rusted nails pulling free of foetid wood, and the plank swung upward on the fulcrum of its cleat. The far end connected with the lion’s jaw just as he walked past, spinning him around and knocking him onto his knees.

Nick was in need of further assistance, though. The wolf had come behind him, grappling him from the back, pinning his arms aside. The hyena, eyes ablaze with murderous fury, cocked his fist and threw a punch directly at Nick’s undefended face, striking him in the eye. The crack of his fist against Nick’s skull seemed to echo revoltingly in the tight confines of the room. He went for a second punch, but Nick lifted his legs high and planted them firmly in the advancing hyena’s gut, throwing him backwards off his feet. Care of gravity, Nick and the wolf also went stumbling backwards, the wolf ploughing into the circular table Nick had been sitting at. The two mammals crashed to the floor in a pile of ruined wood.

The wolf was hardly down for good. Unfortunately for him, as he tried to scramble to his feet, he didn’t have Nick’s presence of mind to snatch up one of the smashed table’s legs. His makeshift cudgel cracked off the side of the wolf’s head, and his head slumped to the ground, knocked clean out.

By now the lion had recovered his senses and stalked towards Nick, club raised overhead.

“Nick, watch out!” Judith shouted, and sprung through the air, slamming into Nick’s torso and knocking them both out of the way, the lion’s swing touching nothing but air.

The two slid to a halt, Judith astride Nick’s prone body.

“Nick, I really think it’s time we left,” she huffed.

“As you command, Captain. Just one thing, first.”

The lion was rearing behind them, club raised for a second swing. Nick gave Judith a shove and she slid across the floor, ending up directly between the lion’s legs. She raised her feet, and like a coiled spring, shot them into the air, her feet connecting with wince-inducing brutality into the lion’s balls.

There was no roar of pain; Judith had struck him so hard that he appeared to have lost his voice, his eyes streaming, his face going green under his fur.

Never one to let an opportunity pass, Nick bounced onto his feet, and took a running shot at the lion’s jaw, striking him with all the force he could muster. The lion reeled, flying backwards and crashing into the chest-high half-wall that separated the two sides of the tavern. The lion obliterated the wall, crashing onto the table on the other side, sending full flagons and bottles smashing to the floor. In short order, the trio of boars who had been drinking there were on their feet, roaring insults and kicking their unwanted guest.

Now that there was no-one between them and the door, Nick turned to Judith, wincing through his swelling eye. “Now we can leave.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” growled the hyena, facing them down. Behind him, the wolf was getting to his feet uneasily, glaring at Nick. The hyena reached into his boot, and drew a wickedly-serrated knife, brandishing it with a street-fighters brute grace. The wolf likewise drew a dagger.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the hyena repeated, his teeth bared. “Not ‘til we’re compensated, right? And we take payment in blood.”

“All of it,” snarled the wolf, taking a step forward.

They both faltered, however, when Judith produced her pistol, cocking the hammer with a threatening snap.

“Another step,” she snarled, “and the only blood we’ll see spent will be yours.”

“That’s a mighty small pistol, there,” the hyena said. “Mighty small shot in it, too. I’d reckon it might just bounce right off my fur.”

“That’s why I’m aiming it at your eye,” Judith said. The hyena balked.

“What are you going to do? Shoot us both with one ball?” the wolf ventured, knife raised.

“You’re right. I’ll only be able to kill one of you. So, who’s going to live, and who’s going to die.”

They were beat. They didn’t drop their knives, but they threw each other worried glances, and the fight went out of their posture.

Backing towards the door, Judith warned, “Don’t pursue us. You take a single step out that door, either one of you, and someone will be picking your brains off the street tommorow.”

With that, Judith and Nick backed towards the door, stepping outside, and disappearing into the street, the wolf’s furious threats followed them.

“I ever see either of you again, I’ll rip your Saint-damned throats out! Ya’ hear?!”

 

 

By the time the two had made it back to Goodwater Bridge, leaving the slums behind, Nick’s eye had blackened tremendously, giving him a permanent right-sided squint.

“Nick, we need to have a surgeon to look at that,” Judith said, trying to reach up and touch his cheek. “We need to get to the barracks; Dreyfus will still be awake, and I doubt he’d ask any questions–”

“No, Hopps,” Nick interrupted, taking a step away. “No, listen to me. I’m not going to the barracks, alight? I’m fine; it’s just a black eye.”

“But if there’s a fracture–”

“Judith, stop,” he pleaded, and she did; she couldn’t recall him using her first name before. “I’m…glad. I’m glad you came to look for me. I’m glad you saved my hide. And ashamed as well, that you even needed to come and search me out in the first place, to see if I had fled. You’ve extracted a promise from me; when the morrow breaks, I will be at the gangplank, and I’ll do as you order on whatever damnable blood-soaked errand the navy wants to send you on this time. I will. And now you must make a promise to me; don’t come look for me tonight. Alright? I couldn’t bear it. And stop that nonsense about turning me into a lord. I don’t want to hear it again.”

Judith’s tongue was paralysed. Stuck fast. She knew if she could just make it budge, everything would tumble out -- apologies, regrets, confessions. But she couldn’t; she was numb with desperation that bordered on outright fear. And she found, to her dismay, that this paralysis extended to her whole body, for when Nick turned away and drifted off into the night, she could not follow.

She watched him go, one shaking paw outstretched, as if to claw him back, which fell to her side when he finally disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that Into The Black has chapter cover art attached now. There's also one for Fox's Guile, and the original images are all on a DeviantArt page under Technical-Error. It really seemed fitting; this story is now nearly 70 pages in my design document, and it occurred to me that, by the time I bring this story to a close, I will have written an honest-to-god novel of sorts. Not one with any marketability, of course, but still; that's exciting.
> 
> As for chapter 5; well, we're nearly at zero-hour for the next work, and I did promise romance and erotica. It definitely isn't in here. By the time I put the last full-stop in, I was a wreck. All I can promise, if this fucked up your day or something, is that there might be light on the horizon.


	6. Belonging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a little short, but OCD pushed me to make this work seven chapters. The other will be up in short order, plus a little surprise.

 

Judith left the Goodwater, barely aware of one foot falling before the other, torn between the two worlds of her obsession: Nick's retreating back, and an advancing deadline before they lowered sails and set a course for Bersei, for the most terrifying engagement of her career.

 She knew, if good sense be her guide, that she should go to her quarters and rest. If, on the day she faced down the _Predator_ , she was slow with fatigue, blunted by worry, it would be the crew’s consignment to a swift and terrible end. She could not risk such a disaster.

Coinpurse Road was still a riot of colour and sound when she passed back through it, but she barely noticed. A juggler hurling pins; a firebreather launching great jets of flame for a cheering crowd; an array of amulets and gewgaws from far distant lands spread on blankets -- she was deaf to everything besides Nick, the mission, and the weight of the exhaustion that had suddenly crept over her. In short order, she found herself returned to the street corner where she had stumbled into Harley some hours ago.

The blind, invalid fox beggar was (unsurprisingly) still there, and when he noticed her again, he drank in her scent with a deep snort.

“Tis the salt-doe again,” he muttered, fixing her with the un-look of his marble-white eyes. “You’ve been somewhere low, Miss. Have the reek o’ the slum on yeh.”

“Old fox,” Judith said, and rightly so, for his fur was tawny and dull with age, and his muzzle salted with greys. “You told me you were a sailor in your prime, that you fought against Sansora.”

“The name is Hamish, I’d thank yeh kindly, and Saint’s oath, I did,” he exclaimed. “They laughed, those stuck-up bastards. Said the only good a fox’ll serve on the ship is to lighten the purser’s stores. But I bloody-well taught them. Won the war by meself, some’d say.”

“So you fought in the Sansoran war of succession?” Judith asked.

“Is that what they call it?” he said, amused. “It were just a bloodbath, really, if my memory hasn’t gone to mould.”

“One last question, good mammal, and I’ll leave you to your peace; what colour were your eyes?”

The fox screwed up his face. “Strange thing to ask,” he muttered, “but I can hardly refuse the request of a beautiful lady. Was always my trouble, that. They were brown, afore they turned white.”

When Judith had first seen this crippled soul, she had recoiled, as if from festering corpse, bloated and repugnant. She was not a superstitious mammal, but she had imagined she was peering through some portal to the future, gazing upon a Nick brought to ruin on her orders. A silly thought, but that didn’t stop it from pricking like a needle.

Now, satisfied that the beggar was no omen, Judith tipped a gold coin into his bowl, offered a smile he couldn’t see, and then continued on her way.

 

 

It was graveyard silent at the barracks; the enlisted mammals quartered there were fast asleep, enjoying the last night they could expect soft linen instead of a swinging hammock. Judith had free reign of the corridors, and made quick progress to the junction that separated the officer’s accommodation from the others.

And there she stopped.

She stopped, looking down the shadowy arcade that led, eventually, to her waiting bed. She didn’t take another step, for something tugged at her, still. And she realised with dismay that if she did take to her quarters, she would spend the twilight hours lying atop her bed, resolutely awake, or pacing the room in hopeless contemplation.

So, she turned right, away from her chambers, and made her way towards the enlisted lodgings, for even though Nick was a (honorary) lieutenant, the navy had not seen fit to house him with the officers. What he received was a small, single room; a welcome relief from the prospect of bunking with other sailors, but awarded, Judith imagined, more out of consideration for whomever would have to lodge with the fox otherwise.

She passed by the bunkhouse, and finally found evidence that there were other souls about -- a chorus of soft snores, and here and there, the quiet yelp of a slumbering mammal dreaming. Conscious of the acuity of canine hearing, Judith slunk by on tiptoes, headed up the stairs, and followed a corridor, passing the other single quarters, until she came to a stop before the door at the hallway’s end.

Nothing there to declare it was Nick’s. No engraved plaque, no sign.

Even though Nick had told her, crystal clear, knife-sharp, _do not look for me_ , he had a cat’s grip on her thoughts, and she could not shake him loose. Even though they had said their last words until the morrow, she felt there was more to say, and even if she was just talking to an empty room, it felt a necessity to give voice to these thoughts.  

She raised her paw to knock, but felt foolish -- she was only in conversation with her own conscience.

“Nick, I…know you’re not there,” she started in a bedroom whisper. “I know these words are just fading into the night air. But if you were here, and if you were listening, I would say the same thing…”

She pressed herself against the door, resting her head on the wood. It was cold on her cheek.

“I’ve met many kinds in my life. The rough and uncivilised. The imperious and aloof. I’ve met the kinds worth saving, and the kinds not. I’ve met mammals willing to throw themselves in danger’s way at my word -- for payment, for duty. But you’re not them, are you? Against the Porcine, you rose up again and again, bloodier each time, more resolute each time; what made you do it? Because I think I know, Nick. It might scare us both, but if I’m guessing right, then all I want to hear is that it’s the truth. Tell me why you fought so hard for me, Nick…”

There were tears beading in her eyes, but she blinked them away in surprise when she heard something. A gentle creak. The soft tap of claw on wood. And she also realised in a flash that Nick had probably never taken tenancy of his quarters; for the past few weeks entire, he had bunked outside the barracks. And before that, he would have had limited opportunity to make use of it between his pardon from the prison and the _Implacable_ setting sail. Yet his scent was here. Musk and lavender. Clear and unmistakable.

His voice was here, too.

“I’ll tell you why, Judith,” came the ghost-soft reply. “This one time.”

Judith’s eyes widened. She held her breath.

“Because I love you. Because you make me belong.”

There was the faint scrape of metal -- a lock being unclasped -- and the door opened a crack. Just enough for Judith to see a glimpse of his face, of that clover stare, even if it came through a bruised squint. She wanted to talk, but her heart was hammering in her chest, her mouth gone dry in excitement. It was every pleasant memory – sunrise in the Burrows; her acceptance to the Naval Academy; the first time she had stood on a ships deck and felt the roll of a wave underfoot --all fused together. It buckled her self-control.

But Nick wasn’t waiting on a reply. He pushed the door open further, let it swing fully aside, and she started when he revealed how he was dressed.

Dark blue. Silver trim. Perfectly pressed. Head to foot.

Nick’s uniform. He had finally deigned to put it on.

Swollen eye or no, Nick looked spectacular. Authority made manifest. It hugged his agile, slender frame, and stunned with its contrast against his bright auburn fur.

But more important was the gesture’s meaning. Nick had kept his uniform at arm’s length for an obvious reason. His service was a punishment, not a calling. His crewmammals not family, but jailers.

Now, was he saying he was ready to change that? To call them something else?

Was he ready to call her something else?

Judith found her tongue. “Is that really the only time I’ll hear you say that?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.

Nick smiled. “As the reason I fought for you? Surrendered so much blood? Yes. But perhaps there are other reasons. I’m willing to find out.”

“Lieutenant Nicholas Wilde, are you going to invite me in? Or am I to stand in the corridor until morning?”

Nick moved aside, offering as graceful a bow as was ever rendered, and Judith stepped over the threshold, and closed the door softly behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not a lot to say; its a bridging chapter to tie up the relationship between the two. Hope you like it.
> 
> You may have noticed the constant little details about other nations, and as a very rough guide, Porcinia is sort of Germanic, Sansora is Spanish-esque, and Bersei has a bit of Russian on it. But only very roughly; it helps to have some resources to draw on to expand the world out a bit. We also have the Ambrosias (Indonesia), the Whitewastes (Siberia maybe?) and an offhand reference to the sandy realm of Ja'kar (Africa). Honestly, though, I haven't fleshed out the geography very exactly, and in my mind these places are all variously bordering an ocean called the Latara. If I seem deliberately vague in the chapters, its because it's a lot easier for everything to be 'about a months sailing away'.


	7. Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? Yes, I am insane.

Judith stood on the deck of the _Invulnerable_ , bucking gently in the harbour. It was raining again; a fine mist that beaded on Judith’s coat and ran down her shoulders and wet the garments beneath.

But she couldn’t have cared less. For one, the sun was shining, its golden rays cascading from a gulf in the clouds over the horizon. The light bounced through the fine drops, turning the world into a curtain of diamonds; a simple but impressive phenomenon that could raise childlike wonder in even the most mature. It was also a kind reminder that the storm was just wind and water, that the sun’s relief was never too far away.

And, secondly…well, the memory of last night was seared in. Even though she had washed, she imagined she could still smell Nick on her.

A few hours ago, she had met Captains Beck and Felix by the dock in the small hours, just as the sun began to pale the sky in preparation for its arrival proper. In the end, she hadn’t taken even a moment’s sleep, but she did not feel sluggish or wan; on the contrary, she felt she had a kitten’s excited grin that she couldn’t hope to chase away.

“You seem in high spirits,” said Beck. “Deep sleep and a fine dream?”

“I am well-rested, thank you,” Judith said, “and merely keen to set sail. It is Silas who will think himself in a night terror when we three fall upon him, and pick his ship to pieces like crab-shell.”

Beck smiled, and flashed those twinkling eyes, those glittering eyes, with that abyssal hatred lurking somewhere beneath. “We must find the blackguard first, Commodore. I dare say your plan will draw him out of his dank lair. Then, we may finally give the wretched beast a reason to feel fear.”

“The last of the salt-fish and bean is aboard,” Felix contributed, ever stiff and formal, “so the _Wavebreak_ is ready to sail on your command. And tarry we shouldn’t; the couriers who fly north talk of huge storms brewing off the coast.”

“So I have heard,” Judith said. “We will not endanger ourselves by sailing straight through a thunderhead, but nor will we squander our best chance of finding the Blackwolf by being overcautious. Gentlemammals, it promises to be exciting days ahead.”

And that was how life in naval command was; a consciousness of the stakes butting against a resolute optimism that they would succeed, whatever the cost. They did not talk of the blood and the fear and how they stood upon chance’s knife-fine edge. Of the insidious thought that maybe, this time, no one was coming back.

But, even though for many the utterance of ‘Blackwolf’ in a hushed tone was to speak the devil’s own name, and it was into this devil’s embrace they purposefully sailed, Judith was not wracked with doubt. They had a plan. They had superiority in numbers. They had the _Invulnerable –_ Saints, was it a fine ship, bristling with lightweight, jacketed steel cannons, gunshot-fast on its copper-plated hull. She really believed, when the cannons began to sing, that they would whip the _Predator_ like any mangy cur. They would make it prey.

Now -- as the sun hoisted itself fully into view, and the crowds amassed to see this venture off, despite the cold prickle of the morning shower; as the sailors began to assemble on the quay to sign the manifest and collect their down-payments -- Judith kept that belief just as strongly.

Her Orders Officer, however, seemed apprehensive.

“Something troubles you, Riley?” Judith asked.

The sheep started. “Oh! No. No, Commodore Hopps. It’s just…there was much bar-room talk about the Blackwolf these last few days, and…none of its true, right? He’s not really a ghost?”

“Riley, if tavern banter had a grain of truth to it, then there are dragons swimming on the far side of the ocean, there’s a ship at the bottom of the sea crewed by the undead, and King Lionheart is actually a goat in a wig. If talk was money, their coins would be made of wood. We will apprehend Silas, like any other flesh-and-fur criminal, and bring him to justice.”

She turned when she realised they had company -- her first lieutenant, Harley, had boarded the ship and was saluting sharply.

“Commodore!”

“At ease, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

Harley turned to Riley. “Ghost or otherwise, the Blackwolf’s days are numbered, and minutely at that. We’re going to find the _Predator_ , smash it into driftwood, and turn Silas Rourke into a throw rug–”

He caught Judith’s disapproving look. “Uh. Apologies, Commodore. I mean, we’ll clap him in irons and bring him to Zooport. Of course. Permission to speak less freely?”

“Again, granted. Now, see your personal effects below, and get our crew in order. We’re departing within the hour.”

Harley saluted smartly, and set about his duty.

Now the enlisted mammals were beginning to flood aboard, saluting as they passed Judith, and rushing to do their jobs, scaling the rigging or disappearing below deck. There were many fresh faces, of course -- the butcher’s bill for taking the _Tribunal_ had not been no meagre invoice -- but many she recognised, and several of them cheered and waved in her honour. MacHorn, who stood head and shoulders above most of the embarking crowd, and to whom emotions – pain as well, for that matter – seemed a foreign concept, simply nodded towards her, his juggernaut rifle stowed over his shoulder.

And then, out of the throng, she spotted a black tricorn, and her smile broadened.

The tricorn proved to be attached to the head of a fox, who was not wearing his uniform, and presented himself instead in a battered longcoat and tall boots, his rough cutlass hanging by his side. He marched towards Judith, stopping sharply and saluting.

“Commodore Hopps! Lieutenant Wilde, reporting for his court-mandated duty!”

“At ease,” she said. “You aren’t in uniform, lieutenant?”

“Apologies, Ma’am. Mine had not been laundered.”

“Perhaps it is for the best that you wear your current finery,” she smiled. “We may be in need of your lucky hole if we’re to pull through this venture intact.”

Nick could have weaved together a filthy quip about her lucky rabbit’s hole, but he held his tongue. He respected Judith. Loved her. And that they couldn’t profess this love openly did nothing to diminish it or dampen its heat; if anything, the pressure made it burn significantly hotter.

He was interrupted, at any rate, by a heavy-set badger, carrying an enormous canvas bag, who dropped it off his shoulder with a thud in order to salute his commander.

“Commodore! Should I take these maps to your personal quarters?”

“Yes, Thomas. Thank you,” she said, and the badger saluted a second time and hefted his load.

“Maps?” Nick asked with a grin as the badger left.

“Can never have too many of them,” she parroted, and Nick’s grin doubled.

“Well, as promised, rain or shine, I am here. And, since I imagine there’ll be urgent need of it, I deigned to remember my sword as well.”

Judith cast a glance at Nick’s battle-tempered cutlass, with its rust-speckled hilt and rough scabbard.

“No, you didn’t,” she said, and stifled a chuckle at Nick’s puzzled face. It was rare for her to get one over him in a verbal spar. Then she nodded at Riley, who produced a long, wax-paper bundle from behind him.

“You may not dress so fine as the other officers, but I can damn-well make sure the weapon you carry looks the part. It might give you the advantage over a better fighter, to boot.”

Riley moved forward, and presented the package to Nick.

“If it’s not too much, Lieutenant,” he whispered, “congratulations, and well earned. There’s many of us who owe our skins to you.”

It was the first time the honorific had been spoken without lashings of sarcasm. Nick stood, speechless, staring at Judith, and then he took the parcel and tore the paper away.

It was a magnificent example; two-and-a-half feet of folded steel, polished to blue-mirror perfection, sunk into an ornate filigree handle and elegant sharkskin hilt. A matching black scabbard accompanied it.

Nick just stared. It was the sort of weapon a hero took to kill gods. He shot an awestruck look at Judith.

“When…when did you…”

“I had it commissioned once we’d returned to port,” Judith said. “Somehow, an unvisited island on the backside of the globe seemed unfitting as your sole reward.”

Nick turned the weapon over in his hands. Its weight was beautiful, perfectly balanced by a craftsmammal who had devoted their life to the work. He noticed an inscription upon the ricasso – _Renascitur._

Judith saw his attention fixed on the script. “It means ‘rebirth’, in the Old Tongue,” she said.

“Hopps, I…It’s the finest thing I have ever owned. I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Judith said. “If you’re going to stand watch over me, then I need you to be ready for the task. To have tools to equal your burden. And just because something is a tool doesn’t mean it can’t be a thing of beauty, a thing cherished.”

“A tool cherished, huh? You’re putting a rather weighty amount of faith in me, Commodore.”

“Where we’re going Nick, into the black, to where the light doesn’t touch, where we can expect no help from the hills or horizon, I’m afraid I have no choice. But I’d hardly call it faith. I _know_ you won’t let me down.”

From the rigging, one of her midshipmammals called down.

“We’re upped-sticks, Commodore! Anchor is raised! Ready to drop sails on your command!”

Judith gave Nick a look.

_Are you ready, my love?_

Nick felt the occasion merited something poetic. An elegant start to a new chapter.

But he simply unclasped his cutlass from his belt, and hung his new blade in place. Battle-rough though the rest of his effects were, he seemed to cut a finer figure with its addition. Then he carelessly tossed his old weapon over the gunwale, where it splashed and sank.

The past was the past. There was no sense clinging to it.

“Let’s go and name a new island in my honour,” he said.

 

 

For hundreds of years, bats had been social lepers; not to the same degree as foxes (all thieves), or hyenas (all scavengers), or rats (all diseased), but their pug-nosed hideousness, and an unfortunate stigma regarding a predilection for hematophagy, tended to relegate them to outcast status. Excepting, of course, that they could fly, and those who pledged their service as couriers could expect regular pay, a roost, and some modicum of societal acceptance.

They flew from the Royal Office of the Post daily, taking an all manner of correspondence to every conceivable corner of the earth. Every day, without exception. Nothing stopped the messengers.

Sailing high above the Zooport rooftops, even in the midst of the nebulous grey clouds, an individual flyer would have had an exceptional view of the proud _Invulnerable_ , with its two frigates in tow, taking the ocean breeze in its sails and storming out to sea, cutting a white trail through the water, leaving the multicoloured sea of the cheering crowd behind.

But one would’ve had to look particularly closely to see something rather more appalling; in a back alley, where the artisan’s quarter connected to the shipyards, a gang of hogs in masks were setting upon a group of four other mammals, catching them unaware and slitting them to tatters with their knives.

The victims drew weapons in their defence, but the attackers had caught them by surprise, and in short order all four of the targets lay lifeless, blood bubbling from their nostrils, running in the cobblestones’ cracks. They died without slaying a single enemy in their defence.

Suddenly, one of the hogs grabbed a companion of his behind by the throat, and sunk his dagger into the pig’s chest, piercing his heart. The hog barely had a moment to squeal softly in shock before his body sagged, and he was dropped upon the pile of corpses. Then, the assassins melted into the shadows, taking off their hoods and becoming, once again, ordinary citizens of Zooport.

The bodies would not lay there for long; the labourers who worked in the shipyards, ending their shift within the half-hour, would come across them and raise the alarm.

And what an alarm it would be. This murder would prove to a lit match to a magazine.

For of the slain mammals, three were guards of the Royal Navy, and the officer they had been travelling as protection for was Commodore Adam Pepper, an oryx and a commander of major significance in the naval hierarchy. The slaying of a member of the military high command was no common murder; this was treason.

And lying right beside him, the one betrayed swine, his head still swaddled in a black mask.

On this mask, a white cross.

The symbol of House Uthber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind audience, we've come to a drawn curtain once again. Throw your roses, and call for an encore. But sorry, you wont be getting one for a little while.
> 
> I know I say that, and then like, 4 days later, there's another chapter. Not this time. The story has grown too big, and I'm finding myself in deep water in regards to the details of the time period I'm referring to, and the specifics of the plot, and also just general facts about my characters. It was easier in the early days when I could invent things without consequence, but I think full steam ahead now would be a mistake. I need a bit of time to get things straight before I commit something to the narrative I'll regret.
> 
> But don't panic. I'll keep Fluff Pieces up-to-date. I might play around with some of the other AUs that jostled for my attention when I committed to high seas piracy. And I doubt I'll be gone for so long that empires will rise and crumble.
> 
> And if that's no consolation, then look to the post under Behind Closed Doors. I did promise I wouldn't make a liar out of myself.
> 
> Guys, thank you so much for reading and commenting. Some of you are giving me feedback within half an hour of my posts. Some of you are correcting my grammar with such gracious civility that the British gentry would cry proud tears. Some of you have really gone above and beyond the call of duty, given there was no duty even owed. You know who you.
> 
> To you, and every one else, thanks. Really. From the bottom of my heart.


End file.
